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verstappenverse · 2 days ago

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Waiting Game

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You’ve been in love with Max for years, silently watching him date the wrong girl, until walking away makes him finally realise you were the one all along. (Requested)

3.9k words / Masterlist

The first time you met Max Verstappen you knew you were doomed.

Not in a he’s-going-to-ruin-my-life kind of way. No, it was quieter than that. Deeper. It was the kind of knowing that settled into your bones and never left. The kind that whispered, I will love him for the rest of my existence, even if he never loves me back.

And you had. Hopelessly. Silently. Faithfully.

You’ve never known a world without Max.

From sandbox castles to celebratory podium hugs, you’ve always been there. When you think of home, it’s not really a place, it’s him. The way he throws popcorn at you during movie nights, the way he remembers how you take your tea, the way he always texts “landed” the moment the wheels hit the tarmac.

You were inseparable. The kind of closeness that made people tilt their heads and ask, Are you sure you’re just friends? You brushed it off with a laugh, a shrug, a carefully rehearsed, Yeah, just friends. But you knew better. You felt it every time your hand brushed his and he didn’t pull away. Every time he called you at 2 a.m. because something was heavy on his mind and you were the only person he trusted enough to hold it with him.

There was never a clear moment when friendship turned into something more for you, it was just a slow unraveling. A shift in the way you watched him. The way your heart stuttered when his name lit up your phone. The way everything softened when he looked at you, even if he didn’t know what it meant. The time he flew across three countries just to bring you soup when you had the flu. You’d laughed, voice hoarse, swaddled in blankets and tissues.

“You’re insane,” you said, but your heart was already halfway gone.

You memorised him like a religion. The furrow between his brows when he was focused. The way his voice softened when he talked about things that scared him, the future, family, not doing enough. You traveled the world with him, race weekends blurred into hotel rooms and midnight drives and laughter spilling out of overpriced restaurants.

And at night, when you’re apart, FaceTime is your safety net. You fall asleep more times than you can count, with his voice crackling through your phone, tucked on your pillow. Sometimes it’s quiet, just the sound of his breath syncing with yours. Sometimes it’s laughter, or whispers about things he’d never say out loud during the day.

Still, you said nothing, because Max was Max. He had dreams to chase and tracks to conquer and a world to carry on his shoulders. And you? You were his best friend. The keeper of secrets. The one he called when everything else fell apart.

It’s always him.

Always.

And that was enough you thought.

That’s probably why it hurts so badly when he chose her.

It was one night, when you were sitting on the couch with him, legs folded, laughing about something dumb. And then, just as the moment quitened, he said it.

“I’ve been seeing someone by the way.”

So casual and unbothered, and you smiled like it didn’t split you open.

“Oh,” you said. “That’s nice, I’m happy for you.”

She wasn’t outright awful.

Not in a way you could call out directly. Not in a way that gave you permission to hate her.

She was sleek and polished and knew exactly how to pose for the cameras. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it looked good on magazine covers. She knew how to charm a crowd, how to toss her hair just right, how to smile for the cameras and nod politely at press events.

She never reacted to his frustrations, because she didn’t care enough to be affected by it. She didn’t ask about his bad days. Didn’t know the way his fingers twitched when he was nervous or the sound he made in his sleep when he was too exhausted to dream.

You wanted to believe she loved him for his sake. But it felt like she loved the image more, the icon, the podiums, the press, the power. Not the boy who forgot to eat when he was stressed. Not the man who kept every letter from his mother in a shoebox under his bed.

You watched from the sidelines, clapping the loudest, smiling the widest, standing just close enough. Pretending that your heart didn’t fracture a little more each time she showed up wearing his jacket. Each time he kissed her forehead. Each time he introduced you as his best friend, like that word wasn’t slowly bleeding you dry.

You didn’t ask for more. You never had. Because loving Max wasn’t a choice, it was an inevitability. And you knew, deep down, he was never really yours to lose.

But God, it still felt like he was.

The longer she stuck around, the more cracks you began to see. Not gaping ones, just tiny fractures only someone who truly knew Max could notice. Subtle, quiet things that dug under your skin until they bruised.

It was in the way she watched his races, when she even bothered to show up. Sometimes she’d arrive midway through, sunglasses still on indoors, distractedly scrolling through her phone while his car kissed the barriers. She never flinched. Never held her breath when he went wheel-to-wheel.

That was the thing, her indifference wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t loud. It was just careless. Passive. It came out in the small things, the way she dismissed his nerves before qualifying with a flat, “You’ll be fine, babe.” The way she laughed when fans screamed his name, muttering, “They’re obsessed with you. It’s creepy.”

Max didn’t see it.

Or maybe he did. Maybe he caught glimpses of her disinterest and shoved them deep enough that they wouldn’t threaten the stability he’d convinced himself he needed. Maybe he stayed because it was easier to be with someone who never demanded the truth.

And you?

You smiled through it.

You were polite. Friendly, even. Because Max was your best friend, and the last thing you wanted was to be the reason for a wedge between him and someone he cared about. So you bit your tongue when she interrupted him. You offered her a drink when she showed up late to the paddock. You complimented her shoes. Let her lean on your shoulder for a group photo you didn’t want to be in.

You did it for him.

And still, people noticed.

The fans weren’t blind. If anything, they saw it more clearly than he did.

@maxarmy33: I don’t care what anyone says, Max’s gf is just NOT it. It’s actually wild how Max can’t see that Y/N has always been the one. She’s been by his side through everything. That kind of loyalty isn’t fake.

@redbullfan1: Max doesn’t just smile around Y/N LOOK at how he lights up around her.. You can’t fake that kind of connection. They’re meant to be, and everyone sees it but him.

@dutchlion26: The fact that Max still isn’t dating Y/N despite their perfect chemistry is a crime.

@maxy4stappen Y/N has been in Max’s corner since day one. She knows him better than anyone, and he’s out here dating someone who barely even watches his races?? Be serious.

You knew they weren’t kind comments. Fans never know the full story, they only saw what was on the surface. Still… you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little vindicating.

You thought maybe, maybe, one day he’d see what everyone else did.

But he didn’t. He chose her.

Things changed slowly after that.

He called less. You didn’t always answer. You made excuses when he asked to hang out, not because you didn’t want to, but because every mention of her name was like pressing on a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

You watched him wrap his arm around her waist at events, post pictures with captions you assumed she wrote. You watched him smile at her like she might be everything.

You told yourself it was fine. That it was enough to love him quietly, from the background. That your place, constant and steady, just a little to the left of center, was still better than not being in his orbit at all.

But deep down, you hoped. Hoped that the weight of your love, quiet and unconditional, would finally register. That maybe one day he’d turn around and realise you’d been there all along.

The intervention happened after Monaco.

You’d watched from your usual place, tucked into the Red Bull hospitality suite, just close enough to feel like part of the chaos, just far enough to know you never really would be. The routine was muscle memory by now. Headphones looped around your neck, heart thrumming in sync with every lap. You could trace the corners of the circuit with your eyes closed, every turn etched into your bloodstream from years of watching him fly through them.

Max had been brilliant. Fierce and unrelenting. He’d carved through the streets of Monte Carlo like the track had been built for him, like it was always meant to be his. You felt every gear shift like a jolt in your ribs, every overtake like a breath you couldn’t quite finish.

His girlfriend had sat two chairs down from you, legs crossed, thumb lazily scrolling through her phone. She hadn’t flinched once. Hadn’t looked up when the entire suite held its breath. You’d barely heard her speak.

You stood in the paddock afterwards, soaked in golden light and champagne mist, your ears ringing with celebration. Cameras flashed. People screamed his name. He threw his arms around his team, his smile wide and breathless. She kissed his cheek and he didn’t even glance your way.

You should’ve felt proud. Happy. Triumphant, even. But instead, you just felt… hollow. Like you were watching the best moment of his life from behind glass.

That was when your friends stepped in.

You didn’t even notice them closing in until you felt a firm hand wrap gently around your wrist.

“You need to stop.”

“Stop what?” you asked, forcing your voice to sound casual, light. The kind of tone that might fool someone who didn’t know better.

“This.” She gestured vaguely, helplessly. “Hanging around like this… waiting for Max to finally wake up and realise you’re the love of his life.”

“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked and gave you away.

“You are,” she said quietly, cutting you off. “You have been. For years. And it’s killing you.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again.

She stepped closer. “You think we don’t see it? The way you look at him? The way you never say no when he needs something? You would rip yourself in half to make his life easier.”

Your throat ached. Your chest felt too tight to breathe in.

“I just want him to be happy,” you whispered, and it was the closest thing to the truth you could say out loud without completely breaking.

“Yeah?” Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm. “And what about your happiness? When’s the last time you even thought about that?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

It started small. Innocent. A slow, gentle push toward something else, something that wasn’t him. Saying yes when someone asked for your number. Letting a date buy you coffee. Letting someone else ask you questions and actually listen to the answers.

The first date was forgettable. The second, slightly better. You started saying yes more often.

And suddenly, Max was paying attention. Longer glances. A missed text here, a delayed reply there and he started asking more questions, Where were you last night? Who were you with? when you posted a photo of a drink across from you at a candlelit restaurant. Did you not fly out this weekend? when he didn’t spot you in the paddock.

His voice stayed easy, but there was something sharp beneath it. Something unsettled.

One night your phone buzzed with a message from him.

Max: Who’s the guy in your story?

You stared at the screen, pulse skipping. Your photo had only shown two hands over dinner, one of them yours.

You: Just a guy I met. Does it matter?

It took him five minutes to respond.

Max: No. Just curious.

You didn’t reply.

For the first time in a long time, Max is the one feeling left behind.

He calls on a Thursday night.

You’re halfway through applying mascara when the screen lights up with his name.

“Hey,” you answer, brushing your lashes carefully.

He sounds tired. “You free to talk tonight? Facetime like always? I can’t sleep.”

You hesitate.

There’s a silence you’ve never had with him before.

“I have a date,” you say softly.

“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Did I have to?” you replied, and instantly felt bad about it.

Max is quiet. Then, “Right. I guess not. Sorry.”

You hesitate. Then add, “Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing anyway.”

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t say goodbye. Just end the call gently, then stare at your reflection in the mirror until the ache in your chest settles into something bitter and familiar.

Max doesn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the race, not because of jet lag, but because your voice won’t leave his head.

Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing.

You’d sounded tired. Guarded. Like you were hiding yourself from him.

And for the first time in his life, Max realises he has no idea what’s going on in your head.

It’s terrifying.

He calls the next morning.

You ignore it.

He opens his camera roll without thinking. Starts scrolling through old photos. Ones he’s probably passed a hundred times before without thinking. You in hotel lobbies, laughing at something he said. You wrapped in scarves on cold race weekends, clutching a takeaway hot chocolate. You curled up on his couch at 1 a.m. after some terrible horror movie, half-asleep, legs tangled in his.

And suddenly, it hits him how constant you’ve been.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just there. Always.

You never asked for anything. Never made him choose. You just showed up. When he was exhausted, when his dad said something that cut too deep, when the media turned cruel or the pressure felt suffocating, whether he won or lost, you were there. Not trying to fix it. Just holding space for him in a way no one else ever had.

How had he not seen it?

How his apartment feels colder without your socks drying on the radiator. How he still buys your favourite cereal without thinking, even though you haven’t been over in two weeks. How he used to FaceTime you after races if you couldn’t be there, win or lose, just to hear your voice while he fell asleep. He never does that with his girlfriend.

It’s never been the same.

He thinks about the last thing you said.

Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing.

And it lands like a punch to the gut.

Because she’s not the one he wants to call at night.

You are.

You were trying. Trying to mean it when you smiled at someone else. Trying to accept that Max had chosen someone who wasn’t you.

Which is why you brought Jake to the next race.

He wasn’t serious. Just kind. Simple. He asked about your day, laughed at your dumb jokes, and held your hand like he meant it. He didn’t know much about racing, but he tried.

You entered the paddock with his fingers laced in yours and felt the storm hit before you even made it to hospitality.

Max was standing by the Red Bull garage mid-conversation, but he went still the second he saw you. His eyes locked on Jake’s hand in yours like it was a threat. Like it didn’t belong there. His jaw clenched. Shoulders squared. A barely visible storm gathering behind his eyes.

You smiled like you didn’t notice, but your pulse fluttered in your throat all the same.

After the race, another podium, another photo-op, he found you.

Cornered you, really.

It was quieter outside the motorhome, the hum of the paddock fading behind you, tension heavy in the air.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked. His voice wasn’t soft, it was guarded. Accusing.

You turned to face him slowly. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured in the general direction Jake had gone. “You and what’s his name? James? Jason?”

You blinked. “Jake.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Right. Jake.”

You folded your arms. “I don’t see why it matters.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Of course it matters.”

“Why?” you asked, harsher than you meant to. “Because you don’t like him? Or because you don’t like the idea of me moving on?”

He flinched, actually flinched. That small, involuntary pull of guilt across his features.

“That’s not—” he started, but you cut him off.

The words came spilling out before you could stop them. “Don’t you dare say that this isn’t fair. You don’t get to tell me what’s fair. I spent years waiting for you, Max.” Your voice shook, the truth finally cracking through the surface. “I waited while you ran to me for everything and still gave your heart to someone else.”

You took a breath. Swallowed the lump rising in your throat.

“I was your best friend. Your person. And I thought… maybe one day you’d finally see me.”

Max opened his mouth, barely, but nothing came out. His expression twisted, like your words physically hurt. Like they were the truth he’d buried too deep to admit.

“But you never did,” you whispered.

He looked lost. Like he didn’t know how to hold onto anything without holding onto you.

“I’m done waiting,” you said, voice steadier now. Stronger. “I deserve someone who actually chooses me. Who doesn’t need to lose me to realise I was there all along.”

He swallowed hard. The kind of swallow that hurts going down. His jaw clenched. His fists curled like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

And for once, he had nothing to say.

You come home the next day to flowers on your doorstep, express delivery.

White tulips your favourite. No note. But you know who they’re from.

You stare at them for a moment too long, heart thudding unevenly, before finally unlocking your phone.

Thanks for the flowers, you text, hitting send before you can overthink it.

His reply is instant. Like he’s been waiting.

Can I see you?

You hesitate, thumb hovering, nerves buzzing just beneath your skin.

Okay.

He comes straight to your place. Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie drawn up, not to hide from paparazzi, you suspect, but to hide from you. Or maybe from whatever truth he’s only just beginning to face.

There’s a hesitation when you open the door, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here anymore.

Once he’s inside he finally speaks. “I didn’t know,” he says, voice hoarse.

You frown. “Didn’t know what?”

Max exhales, slow and heavy, like dragging the truth to the surface is painful. “I didn’t know it was you.”

Your brows draw together, confused, lips parting, but he keeps going.

“I’ve been chasing all these things, titles, wins, people, and I didn’t realise I already had the most important one right in front of me.”

You blink, caught between disbelief and the ache of wanting to believe it.

He steps closer, carefully. “You’re the one I want to talk to at 2 a.m. You’re the one I want next to me when I fall asleep. You always have been. I just didn’t see it. Not until I thought I’d lost you.”

Your chest tightens, breath catching. “Max…”

“I think…” he cuts in, voice raw, “I think I’ve been in love with you this whole time.”

You freeze.

“What?” you ask, stunned. The word barely escapes.

“I didn’t know what it was,” he says, his hands shaking slightly as he rakes them through his hair. “I know I’ve been an idiot, but you have to know I never meant to do anything to hurt you, I was just blind. I thought… fuck, I thought it was just how we are. I thought everyone had a best friend like you. I didn’t realise it until I saw you with someone else, and it felt like the air got ripped out of my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stand it.”

You step back on instinct, the pain too fresh, too tangled with old wounds. “Max… don’t do this. Not because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I mean, I am, obviously, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I can’t keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, so longed for, so impossible, and yet, somehow, not enough to steady the storm inside you

His voice breaks on the next part. “I ended things. I don’t love her. I don’t think I ever did. She was easy and safe. But she’s not you. No one is.”

And God, the way that splits you open. The way it taps into something buried but still bleeding.

He watches you, eyes wide and full of fear. “I know I’ve hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But tell me…”

He swallows hard.

“Tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him.

Really stare.

You see it. The boy who once held your hand under a table because you were nervous. The one who stayed on FaceTime with you for hours after a race just to hear your voice. The boy who didn’t know how to love you the right way until he almost lost the chance to try.

And there’s a part of you, raw and wounded, that wants to say no. That wants to tell him it’s too little, too late. That it’s not fair it took you walking away, took someone else’s hands on your waist, for him to finally look up and see what had been in front of him all along.

But the love runs too deep. Deeper than pride. Deeper than reason.

“I love you,” you whisper, before you can think about stopping yourself.

Max goes completely still.

“I have for a long time,” you add, voice trembling. “I just didn’t think you’d ever feel it back.”

For a beat, he’s stunned. And then he laughs, a quiet, breathy sound, and crosses the space between you, pulling you into his arms like he never wants to let go.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I love you.”

You smile, eyes burning, burying your face in the soft cotton of his hoodie, heart pounding loud enough to echo in your ribs. When he pulls back, his hands linger at your jaw, brushing your cheek with a kind of reverence. And then, finally, finally, he kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Careful. As if he’s still not sure he deserves it. But when you sigh into it, arms tightening around his neck, he deepens the kiss with a low, shaky breath.

When he eventually pulls away, he’s grinning, eyes soft and voice rough.

“No more falling asleep on FaceTime okay?”

You tilt your head, confused. “Why not?”

Max squeezes your hand.

“Because I want you next to me for real.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89

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blueberrybirdsworld · 2 days ago

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Out of frame 1/4

Summary : Y/N and Lando Norris have been together for three years. Their relationship is real, steady, and full of quiet love but always behind the scenes. While fans know they’re a couple, Lando has never posted about her, avoids public displays of affection, and never mentions her in interviews. At first, Y/N understood. She believed it was about privacy, about protecting what they had. But over time, being constantly left out of frame has started to hurt.

Genre : angst, SMAU

Pairing : Lando Norris x reader

Faceclaim : @suanbeiii

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

@landonorris

Solid weekend for the team. Proud of the progress, still hungry for more.

@_user1 he really posted a whole carousel and not ONE pic of his gf who was literally trackside all weekend 😭

@_user2 not even a mention to Y/N… 🫠

@_user3 he posts more Oscar than his actual girlfriend 💀 priorities???

@_user4 if you didn’t already know they were together you’d 100% assume he’s single. this is just weird now.

@_user5 i get wanting privacy but this feels like pretending she’s not part of his life at all 🙃

@_user6 she looked so pretty this weekend too and nothing?? not even a tag? a repost?? okay then.

@_user7 lando i love you but if you post oscar one more time before your actual girlfriend... 😩

@_user8 she shows up to support him every time and he won’t even acknowledge her... she deserves someone proud to be with her tbh.

@_user9 THAT OVERCUT WAS SO SMOOTH. give this man a trophie 😤👏

@_user10 can we talk about how good he looked in that third pic omg 😮‍💨

@_user11 LANDO MASTERCLASS LET’S GOOOOO 🔥🔥🔥

@_user12 he’s so serious here omg bring back chaotic lando for a second pls

@your_username 📍Melbourne

Driver number 4 is kinda cute 💌

@_user1 the caption??? Y’ALL ARE SO LOWKEY BUT SO CUTE I’M CRYING 😭

@_user2 girl you’re soft-launching your boyfriend of 3 YEARS 😭😭

@_user3 that polaroid of lando casually thrown in there… I SEE YOU 👀

@_user4 ok but why is this post more romantic than anything he’s ever posted 🥲

@_user5 her at the track >>>>>

@_user6 driver number 4 better WAKE UP and post you too, queen.

@_user7 the way she supports him so quietly and consistently... deserves more recognition fr

@_user8 prettiest girl at the paddock 💘

@_user9 nah cause this aesthetic is everything

@_user10 “driver number 4 is kinda cute” is the most girlfriend thing i’ve ever read lmao

@landonorris

Recharge day after the race 🌊

@_user1 sir who is taking these pics 👀

@_user2 ok but you could’ve at least tagged your girlfriend if she’s behind the camera 🙃

@_user4 jumping into the ocean like he’s diving away from accountability

@_user5 you look happy but why does this give ‘i’m gonna ignore my gf again’ energy 😩

@_user6 lando pls post your gf for once we’re begging 😭

@_user7 this whole post is ✨aesthetic✨ and also suspiciously solo

@_user8 i know y/n is there i can FEEL it through the screen

@_user9 how are you real. like actually. it’s offensive at this point 😍🔥

@_user10 lando + blue water = serotonin

@your_username

Lost at sea but in love with it and maybe a little bit with him too @landonorris 💙

@_user1 oh she’s SERVING

@_user2 lando… baby… if you don’t want her I WILL 😌

@_user3 you’re literally the prettiest woman on this app i don’t understand how he keeps you hidden like a secret

@_user4 nah bc if i looked like this and he never posted me i’d simply disappear

@_user5 can lando even fight?? because you’re way too stunning for this level of invisibility 💅🏼

@_user6 he posts boats. she posts him. let that sink in.

@_user7 if she ever becomes single i’m standing outside her house with flowers

@_user8 the towel pic is giving summer movie ending energy 🥺

@_user9 not to be dramatic but he should be GRATEFUL to be in this post

Texts messages

Lando Got back to the hotel. You home safe?

Y/N Yeah. Landed an hour ago. Just got in

Lando You okay? You’ve been quiet since you left Did I do something?

Y/N Not really. I’m just tired

Lando Y/N. Don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re fine but I can feel it’s not

Y/N Well Maybe there’s something

Lando Talk to me

Y/N I don’t want to argue with you, Lando. Not over text

Lando Then let’s not argue. Just tell me what’s on your mind. Please

Y/N Okay It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid But I saw the comments under your post

Lando The boat post?

Y/N Yes And the one from Melbourne to Every single one saying “where’s your gf” or “why doesn’t he post her” or “does she even exist”…

Lando Y/N You know that stuff isn’t real It’s Instagram. Fans talk

Y/N Yeah, but I am real And I was there. I’m always there But if I wasn’t posting you, no one would even know we’re together

Lando What are you trying to say?

Y/N I’m saying it’s starting to feel like maybe I’m the only one proud to be with you That maybe… you don’t want me to be visible. That I’m not someone you want to show off

Lando That’s not fair You know I’m private. I always have been. I don’t need to prove anything to strangers online

Y/N This isn’t about strangers It’s about me.

Lando We are public. People know we’re together. It’s not like I’m hiding you

Y/N Then why does it feel like you are?

Lando Y/N…

Y/N You say you don’t want to share too much online. Okay. But you don’t even talk about me in interviews. You don’t look at me in the paddock. You walk ten steps ahead. You don’t touch me in public. You don’t even smile at me if cameras are around

Lando You’re exaggerating.

Y/N Am I?

Lando So what, you want me to start posting couple selfies and PDA every weekend just to make people shut up?

Y/N No. I want you to want to Not for them. For me

Lando You know I love you. Why does it matter how many people see it?

Y/N Because maybe I want to feel like you’re proud of me Of us

Lando I am proud of us. I just don’t show it the same way you do

Y/N Then maybe we want different things

Lando ...what did you just say?

Y/N Maybe I want more More than quiet acknowledgments and careful distance

Lando You’re making it sound like I don’t care about you

Y/N Oscar is private too But he still posts about Lily. He talks about her in interviews, he includes her He makes her feel seen without compromising anything

Lando Are you serious right now?

Lando You’re really bringing up Oscar in the middle of this?

Y/N It’s not about him. It’s about how he finds a way to love her loudly without putting her in the spotlight she didn’t ask for

Lando Unbelievable.

Lando So what, now I’m not just a bad boyfriend, I’m worse than Oscar too?

Y/N That’s not what I’m saying, Lando...

Lando No, that’s exactly what you’re saying You want a boyfriend like Oscar? Go be with Oscar.

Y/N Wow. That’s what you got from this?

Lando You’re throwing comparisons in my face and expecting me to stay calm?

Y/N I’m trying to make you understand! I want to feel valued, Lando. I want to feel like I’m part of your life, not just your locked-away secret. Is that so unreasonable?

Lando So because I don’t perform our relationship for strangers online, I don’t value you? Do you hear how that sounds?

Y/N You’re twisting my words

Lando You’re making this about other people. About Instagram

Y/N No, I’m making this about how you treat me About how I feel invisible when I’m next to you and the world’s watching

Lando I didn’t realize dating me came with a rulebook on public affection

Y/N It doesn’t But I thought being with me came with basic emotional effort

Lando I’m always there for you. I love you. I give you everything I can But it’s never enough, is it?

Y/N Not when you act like this

Lando Fine. Enjoy Monaco. I’ll see you whenever

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @hi26loveie, @bunnisplayground, @nina481, @reallifemermaidprincess, @cars-and-frogs, @delululeclerc, @txmhxllqnd, @lydia-demarek, @destinyg237, @rhaenyrasversion, @sarascabiosa, @readz4u, @tvdtw4ever, @mynameisangeloflife, @teti-menchon0604, @suns3treading, @op814kitty, @prettyboyroseberg, @willowsnook, @ariesandwolves, @clarksgf, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @pinklemonade34, @fat-meh, @tiaajosephin, @landosbabe4, @easy4, @jule239, @mercrussell, @skylandori, @ryuucollapse, @nickie-amore, @fairyjinn, @seonaw, @mattslovelygf, @strawberrylov-er, @linnygirl09, @dilflover44, @bell1a, @f1fantasys, @sillyfreakfanparty, @janonymus0, @taetae-armyyyyy, @charlesgirl16, @angstynasty

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luceleste · 3 days ago

Text

Where Flowers Bow

chapter 1

pairing – Satoru Gojo x f!reader summary – Invited to Duke Satoru Gojo’s palace as a potential bride, you arrive with nothing but a ruined name and perfect manners. Among jewels and judgment, you’re just another candidate in a parade of perfect girls — until a stranger in the garden, who isn’t what he seems, speaks to you like you’re real. In a palace of masks, someone has already chosen you. You just don’t know why.

warnings – renaissance!AU, female reader, eventual SMUT, strangers to lovers, angst with comfort, political drama, emotional tension, power imbalance, mentions of social hierarchy/class pressure, slow burn, manipulation, masks and appearances, gojo’s mother is named midora. reader’s mother is important in the story. the language leans slightly formal and poetic in tone to match the setting. more to be added.

word count – 7.7k

notes – This will be a long story because I love drama. I was completely obsessed with the idea of Duke Gojo after reading Silent Serenades by @madamechrissy and couldn’t get it out of my head. Thanks for the inspo, Chrissy ♡

divider by @thecutestgrotto

It had never been a secret that you were meant to marry well — and soon. Since childhood, your mother had made it your life’s purpose. You were trained to move with grace, to speak only when spoken to, to always smile at the right moments. Every lesson, every correction, every praise was offered with the same quiet promise: become the perfect wife, and you’ll be rewarded. Preferably with wealth. Hopefully with influence. Love was never part of the arrangement.

You were raised knowing your fate, and it wasn’t as if you had any other choice, so you learned to accept it.

You also knew — though it was never spoken aloud — that your mother had pulled every string she could to keep your family’s downfall a secret. If anyone had learned the truth — the debt, the disgrace, the thin cracks in your inheritance — you wouldn’t have been offered to a tailor’s apprentice, let alone a Duke.

And yet, somehow, your name had made it to the list.

Now, as the carriage rocked gently beneath you, you pressed a hand to the velvet-lined wall and stared out through the narrow window. The estate was still far in the distance, but even from here, you could see the spires reaching toward the sky — proud, pale, and unreal. The Gojo palace was not meant for people like you. It belonged to stories. To legends. To those born into power, not those clawing at the edges of it.

You didn’t know what your mother had promised, or to whom. You didn’t know how many hands she’d kissed or threatened, how many secrets she’d buried. But she had gotten you here — one of the few young women selected to be considered for the hand of Duke Satoru Gojo.

And now, you would have to survive it.

The silence in the carriage was heavy — the kind that pressed against your ribs and made your thoughts feel too loud.

Your mother sat across from you, spine perfectly straight despite the uneven road. Her gloved hands rested in her lap, unmoving. Not a single strand of hair had escaped the smooth roll pinned at the base of her neck. She was composed, as always — the picture of control.

“You will remember what I taught you.” She said at last, not looking at you.

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded once. “Yes, Mother.”

Her gaze shifted to the window. “You must make yourself indispensable. But never too eager. You must appear grateful, but never desperate. If he suspects you want him—truly want him—it’s over.”

You said nothing.

A moment passed.

“You can’t ruin this.”

The words sat between you like an accusation. You turned your face toward the glass, watching the pale towers grow taller with every passing second. “What did you promise?”

Your mother’s jaw tightened.

“Nothing we can’t survive.” She said. “If you do well.”

You looked at her again then — really looked. There was something steely beneath her calm, something like exhaustion pressed behind her eyes. You wondered how many letters she had written. How many names she’d begged from. How many favors she’d burned to ash.

The silence returned. But you were used to it by now. In fact, you preferred it this way.

The carriage slowed.

The pale stone of the palace shimmered like a mirage — all towering columns and gleaming spires, its windows catching the sunlight like shards of cut glass. It didn’t look real. It looked like something out of a storybook, the kind your governess used to read aloud when you were small — back when your family still had a governess. Still had servants. Still had status.

Even the front yard — if it could be called that — was larger than your entire estate. Wide marble steps unfolded like a stage. Fountains danced in the sunlight as if they existed for no other purpose than to sparkle.

It was beautiful.

It was obscene.

And you were expected to belong here.

Your heart beat once. Then again, harder.

Still, your hands remained folded neatly in your lap. Your posture was perfect. Your face, serene.

Outside, servants moved with mechanical precision — polished boots striking stone in perfect cadence, crisp uniforms, faces impassive. No one looked at the carriage. And yet, you felt it. The watching.

This place had eyes. You could feel them the moment the wheels touched the marble drive — silent, faceless, everywhere.

Don’t show it. You told yourself. Not the awe. Not the fear. Not the ache in your chest that felt dangerously close to hope.

“Chin up.” Your mother said as the carriage door clicked open. Her voice was calm — too calm. The kind that disguised sharp edges.

She stepped out first, her movements elegant, unhurried. Then, with a gloved hand, she offered you help — not as a gesture of affection, but of precision. Ceremony. As expected.

You took it.

The breeze greeted you at once, cool and perfumed with something you couldn’t name — roses, maybe, or lavender crushed under carriage wheels. It brushed your face like a caress, but there was no comfort in it. Only the sharp reminder that you were no longer home.

Some of the servants nearby rushed forward to collect the luggage, moving with quiet efficiency, as if every step had been rehearsed. Then, a tall young woman approached — graceful and composed, each movement deliberate.

She had long black hair pulled back in a smooth coil, lashes dark as ink, and cheekbones so finely sculpted they gave her the air of something painted, not born.

“Ladies.” She said, bowing her head with effortless poise. Her voice was smooth, practiced. “I am Ysera. I’ll be attending you throughout your stay at the palace. If you would follow me?”

You tried to match her composure, straightening your spine just slightly. But something inside you twisted — not from fear exactly, but from the quiet, rising suspicion that even the palace’s servants were more prepared for this world than you were.

The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.

It was cooler here, like the walls had been holding their breath for centuries. The floors gleamed with such care that your reflection shimmered faintly beneath your feet. Tapestries the height of trees draped the walls, woven with gold thread and scenes you didn’t recognize. Stained glass windows filtered the sunlight into soft pools of blue, red, and purple that danced across the marble.

You had never seen anything so opulent. Or so quiet.

The corridor stretched endlessly before you. Every step felt too loud. You kept your chin up, your gaze steady, but your throat had gone dry.

Ysera walked ahead, graceful and unhurried. Your mother followed as if she belonged here — as if she’d done this before. Only you seemed to feel the weight pressing down from the ceiling itself, from the velvet silence, from the history threaded into every stone.

You tried not to stare too long at the grandeur around you. You couldn’t afford to be caught in awe. You were supposed to be used to this — supposed to belong among the gold and glass.

“You are to rest for now.” Ysera said as she led you down the hallway. “The banquet will be served at six. Please be prepared—Her Grace, Lady Midora Gojo, and His Grace, Lord Satoru Gojo, will see you there.”

You weren’t sure which name made your stomach twist more.

Ysera stopped before a tall white door and turned the handle with a graceful twist of her wrist.

“This is your room.”

You stepped forward — then froze.

It was a vision in blue and gold.

Sunlight poured through gauzy curtains, casting a soft glow over the white walls and spilled across an intricate carpet underfoot. The bed looked like something out of a painting: large enough to drown in, dressed in rich blue velvet and trimmed with golden tassels. Matching chairs stood beside a tall window. The room glowed with quiet warmth, like it had been prepared with care — not just for a guest, but for someone meant to be seen.

Your mother moved to enter behind you, but Ysera lifted a hand—polite, firm, immovable.

“I’m sorry, my lady.” She said. “This chamber is for your daughter alone. Don’t worry—your quarters are just as refined.”

Your mother’s lips thinned, but she said nothing.

You knew her well enough to recognize the displeasure in her silence. She didn’t like the idea of you being alone — not now, not in a place like this, where everything mattered and everything could be lost. But still, you couldn’t help the quiet relief that bloomed in your chest. For a few hours, at least, you would be able to breathe without being corrected. You could sleep without being jolted awake for sleeping in an improper position.

“Good evening, Mother. I hope you rest well.” You said, offering your most delicate smile — the one you’d practiced a hundred times in the mirror. “And thank you, Ysera.”

“I will return to escort you to the banquet hall, my lady.” Ysera replied, bowing with elegant precision before closing the door behind her with a soft, final click.

Silence.

Your knees wobbled. You reached for the edge of the bed, fingers curling into the thick velvet for balance.

Your mind spiraled — how were you supposed to become a Duchess when you could barely breathe in a place like this? How were you meant to impress a man whose palace made your childhood home look like the servant’s quarters? How could you ever convince a family like his that you belonged here?

The fear crept in slowly. Then all at once.

But you swallowed it, like you always did.

Because there was no room for doubt now.

You had to be perfect.

—

You couldn’t rest. Not even for a moment.

Lying in the enormous bed, you stared up at the blue and gold panels carved into the ceiling, your fingers drifting across the velvet sheets like they belonged to someone else. This wasn’t just a room — it was a throne disguised as a chamber, built for people born into power, not for girls like you, who had to be trained to imitate it.

The thoughts hadn’t stopped since the door clicked shut.

What would you do if he didn’t choose you? How would you face your mother then — look her in the eye after everything she’d risked?

Were the other pretenders just as close to breaking as you?

And the Duke… how did he look?

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t his face that would decide your future. It was his choice.

And it had never really been yours.

You kept repeating it in your head like a prayer — the way to walk, the right tone to speak in, how much to laugh, how little to eat, the exact pressure to hold a glass without showing a shake. Over and over. Again and again.

The walls felt like they were pressing in, gilded edges turning into a cage. Every breath you took felt shallow, like the air itself was too fine for your lungs. You knew this wasn’t how you were supposed to behave — a lady didn’t wander, didn’t drift unsupervised through a Duke’s palace like a restless ghost. But you needed air. Just a moment of it. Something real.

You stood by the door, frozen.

What if someone caught you? What if the Duke’s mother — Lady Gojo — heard of it? What if this single choice undid everything your mother had schemed to build? Your hands were cold, slick with nerves. But the thought of staying — of lying back on those sheets and letting the silence close in around you — felt worse. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You had to move.

You remembered a door you’d passed earlier, tucked between gilded columns and half-shadowed tapestries — it had looked like it led to the garden. You hoped you were right.

With fingers trembling against silk skirts, you stepped out of your room. The hall beyond was quiet. Too quiet.

Your mother would skin you alive if she found out. But with any luck, she was already resting. Or pretending to.

Your shoes made no sound on the polished floor as you walked, heart hammering with every step. A pair of servants passed — expressionless, dressed in silver and navy — and though their eyes slid to you, they said nothing. Just a bow of the head. Polite. Dismissive.

You found the door. Tall. Glass-paneled. Cool to the touch.

You pushed it open.

And breathed.

The garden unfolded like something from a dream — all sculpted hedges and marble fountains, arching roses and soft grass that looked too delicate to walk on. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, faint and heady. Lanterns glowed in the distance like fireflies caught mid-flight.

You had never seen anything so beautiful.

A light breeze played with your hair as you walked, catching at the loose strands and brushing cool against your cheeks. For the first time since arriving, you felt something close to peace — fragile, fleeting, but real. The distant sound of water trickling from a fountain filled the silence without demanding anything from you.

Then, you stopped.

A bush of blue flowers caught your eye — their color so vivid, it hardly seemed real. Not sapphire. Not cornflower. Something deeper, stranger, like the sky just before a storm or the pigment of a dream you couldn’t quite name. It was a shade you didn’t know flowers could be — not in books, not in gardens, not in anything meant to bloom.

You knelt, skirts folding beneath you, fingers hovering just above the petals. There was something sacred in the way they bent with the breeze — not broken, not fragile, only reverent. Your hand trembled slightly as you reached out, not quite touching. As if afraid contact would wake you from whatever this was.

They looked too beautiful to be allowed. And yet they bowed gently toward your palm, like they were the ones drawn to you.

“Are you lost?”

The voice cut through the quiet — warm, unhurried, and far too close.

You startled.

Spine snapping straight, you turned so quickly your hand brushed the petals. The flowers trembled — or maybe it was you.

There he was.

A tall man with silver-white hair, his skin pale and glowing faintly in the evening light. And his eyes — blue, yes, but nothing like the flowers. His eyes were unreal. Too vivid. Too piercing. Like they didn’t belong to this world.

He wasn’t dressed like a servant. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and he wore no coat, but there was an ease to the way he stood — like he belonged here more than anyone.

You stood quickly, smoothing your dress. “I’m so sorry, sir.” You said, breathless. “I only came to get some fresh air.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Lady Midora doesn’t like people picking her flowers.”

You froze. His voice sent a chill down your spine. And then you noticed — the way he’d called Duchess Gojo only by her first name.

Panic tightened in your chest. You couldn’t get in trouble on your first day in the palace.

“I—I wasn’t going to pick them.” You stammered, cursing yourself. “I’m really sorry. I just meant to—”

Your words caught in your throat as he stepped closer, reaching past you. His hand moved with quiet ease as he plucked one of the vibrant blooms from the bush behind you.

“But she’ll forgive me.” He said simply, offering it to you with a faint smile. “Eventually.”

You hesitated before taking the flower. His fingers brushed yours — just for a second — and something in your stomach twisted in response.

“Thank you.” You said uncertainly.

He only nodded, studying you with quiet curiosity.

“You’re not from the capital.” Not a question, but a fact.

You swallowed. “No, I’m not.”

“So what brings you here?”

You let your fingers trace the petals, trying to mask the thudding of your heart.

“I’m here for the banquet.” you said quickly. “Just a guest.”

“A guest.” he echoed, the corner of his mouth lifting like the word struck him as unexpected.

There was something about him — the way he stood, so relaxed, so confident — like no one had ever told him to be quiet or careful in his entire life.

You took a breath. “May I ask who you are, sir?” You asked carefully, trying not to look directly into his eyes.

“Same as you.” He said. “Just a guest.”

The tension in your chest loosened just slightly. He was clearly someone important, but if he wasn’t part of the Gojo household… you could breathe a little easier.

“Oh. I see.” You glanced down, your grip tightening around the flower. “The garden was so beautiful, I just had to see it for myself. I hope Duchess Gojo won’t be too upset.”

“She won’t, if she doesn’t find out.”

You let out a small laugh, hiding your smile behind your free hand.

“Well… I hope she doesn’t, then.”

“I won’t tell.” He said, already turning toward one of the marble fountains nearby. “If you don’t tell I’m here either.”

“Your secret is safe, sir.” You replied.

And when he walked, you followed.

His steps were slow but deliberate, hands clasped behind his back, like your presence was a detail, not a disruption. He moved with a kind of ease — not arrogant, exactly, but far from the stiff grace you’d been trained to recognize in noblemen.

And just when you thought the silence might stretch forever—

“Do you think he’ll choose you?” He asked, casually — like commenting on the weather, eyes still fixed on the marble fountain ahead.

You blinked. “What?”

“The Duke.” He clarified. “You’re here as one of the pretenders, aren’t you?”

Your step faltered.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, a faint smile ghosting across his lips — but his voice had dropped lower now.

“Do you think he’ll choose you?”

The question landed softly — but it echoed through your ribs like a bell. You turned to him, uncertain if you’d heard him correctly. But he was watching the water.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“I… I wouldn’t know.” You said at last, the words careful, almost measured. “I haven’t even met him. Or the other girls.”

He tilted his head, studying you.

“I imagine they were trained as well as you.” He said, leaning against the fountain’s edge. “They know how to pretend they belong.”

“Would you blame us? It’s not like we have a choice.” The words slipped out — too fast, too real — and you winced. That wasn’t how you spoke. Not here. But something about him disarmed your careful rehearsals.

He smiled, faintly amused. “No blame. Don’t worry.”

He looked to the palace — the gold-trimmed walls glowing in the twilight. “This place swallows people.” He said. “It’s made to. Most who walk through those doors forget who they were before.”

“You speak like you’ve seen it happen.”

He shrugged, trailing his fingers through the fountain’s water. “I have.”

A beat passed. You moved closer, the flower in your hand was warm from your grip.

“Why did you ask me that?”

His eyes met yours. “Because you don’t seem like you’ve forgotten yet.”

You weren’t sure if it was a compliment. Or a warning. But it landed somewhere deep — like he saw something you weren’t sure you meant to show.

Then, more lightly, he added, “Or maybe I’m just trying to make conversation with the girl who wasn’t supposed to be in the garden.”

You huffed — almost a laugh — tension easing from your chest. “Well, you said you weren’t supposed to be here either. So I’d say we’re even.”

This time, it was your fingers brushing the water’s surface.

He didn’t speak at first. He just watched the motion of your hand — not rudely, not with the judgment you were used to. It was more like… curiosity. The kind that didn’t need answering.

“So,” he said at last, voice mellow, “do you make a habit of wandering into forbidden places?”

You glanced at him, arching an eyebrow. “Only when they’re beautiful.”

He smiled at that. Not the kind you’d expect — not polite, not rehearsed. It was crooked, almost boyish, like he hadn’t meant to let it out. “Dangerous answer.”

“Is it?” You challenged, resting your hands on the stone edge. “Or is it just honest?”

He tilted his head, regarding you again. “Honesty isn’t common here.” He said. “I can tell you are really not from the capital.”

“I didn’t think it was that obvious.” You murmured, glancing down.

“I didn't mean it in a bad way, trust me.”

You turned to him again, surprised by his tone. There was no mockery in it. If anything, he sounded almost wistful.

Then he glanced back at the water and said, lightly. “You know, when I was younger, I used to think there were tiny spirits living in fountains.”

You smiled. “Spirits?”

He nodded. “They’d whisper secrets to anyone brave enough to listen. I spent a whole summer trying to make them talk to me.”

“And did they?”

He leaned in slightly, stage-whispering. “Only once. But they had terrible advice.”

You laughed, and it came out too loud — real, surprised. You covered your mouth again, embarrassed.

But he just looked pleased.

He grinned. “They told me to cut all my hair off. I did. My mother nearly banished me to the mountains.”

“You can’t be real!” You said, still trying — and failing — to hold your laugh.

“I mean it!” He insisted, mock-offended. “She was furious, and I was completely frustrated — the tiny spirits conspired against me.”

You gave him a look — amused, curious, surprised at yourself. He wasn't afraid to say what he wanted, like you always were.

“What about you?” You asked. “You’re a guest… you said?”

Where was this curiosity coming from? You never let yourself speak so freely — but your spine wasn’t so straight now, your voice not so careful. Around him, it was like remembering how to breathe.

“I did say that.”

“But that’s not all, I presume.”

“Isn’t it?” His smile sharpened, eyes glittering. “I’m not lying.”

“No. But you’re not telling everything, either.”

“I’m always more sincere before breakfast.” He said with a grin. “After that, I tend to talk between the lines and hang around gardens hoping someone interesting loses their way.”

It took you a moment to register what he’d said — and when you did, the corners of your mouth betrayed you. A smile, quick and involuntary, slipped out before you could hide it.

As you part your lips to answer him, something shifts in the sky — a single star, then another. Your heart skips a beat.

“Oh dear lord — I’m going to be late!” You breathe, panic clutching your ribs like a corset drawn too tight. You hadn’t even noticed the time passing.

You were supposed to be ready by now. Your gown — laid out across your bed, untouched. Your hair — had the pins held through your aimless wandering? Had the curls fallen? And your shoes — dusty now from the garden paths, the fine leather smudged with soil and crushed petals.

You turn on your heel, but your body refuses to move as quickly as your thoughts. Your feet, suddenly heavy, hesitate on the garden path like they knew something your mind hadn’t admitted yet.

You didn’t want to leave.

How could you? The garden had been the only place you’d felt peace in a long time. Your breath was easier, your voice your own. The quiet here had soothed you, wrapped around your shoulders more gently than silk ever could. And maybe it wasn’t just the garden.

Maybe it was the man beside the fountain.

You look back.

He hasn’t moved. Still by the fountain, the water now glowing silver beneath the deepening twilight. His expression is unreadable — but he’s still watching you.

“Go.” He says softly, almost teasing. “I’ll see you around.”

The words warmed something under your skin. Ridiculous, maybe, how much you wanted to believe him. That this wouldn’t be the last time.

But you lingered a moment longer anyway. Just one more breath. Just in case.

You walked back toward the palace, your steps quieter now, slower than urgency demanded. With each one, the garden slipped further behind you. The flickering lanterns. The scent of jasmine. The sound of trickling water.

But a part of you — maybe the most honest part — was still there, somewhere between the fountain and the blue flowers.

And you weren’t sure if it would follow you back.

—

You didn’t need help getting ready.

Not anymore.

Since your family’s fall, you had learned to pin your own hair, apply your own makeup, to fasten corset laces with aching arms and silent frustration. You had taught yourself to move with elegance, even when no one was watching. Especially then.

Tonight, all of that practice had paid off. You were ready on time.

You’d just finished polishing your shoes — a careful, obsessive effort to remove every speck of dirt from the soles — when three soft knocks came at your door.

“It is time, my lady.” Came Ysera’s voice, muffled through the heavy wood. The same servant who’d helped you and your mother settle in earlier.

You closed your eyes.

That was it.

The performance began now.

You turned to the mirror for a final glance. Your reflection stared back — composed, poised, unfamiliar. You adjusted a curl near your temple, tucking it neatly behind your ear. Then, slowly, you layered on the smile you had practiced for years: gentle, beautiful, convincing.

Perfect.

You reached for the golden handle and opened the door.

Ysera stood before you in her spotless uniform, her face calm, giving nothing away. Behind her was your mother — rigid, as always, her gaze slicing through you like glass.

Just looking at her made your stomach clench. You knew what she was thinking. You knew what was at stake. You knew how much she had gambled to bring you here.

And so, you locked your arm with hers. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared.

You would make this right.

Ysera turned and began to lead you down the corridor, your heels echoing against marble floors. You and your mother followed in silence, arms intertwined, your pace practiced, your steps too careful to be natural.

You wanted to notice the palace — to let yourself be awed by the arched ceilings, the embroidered tapestries, the decor. But your mind was somewhere else entirely. Trapped in your chest. Beating fast, too fast, as though your body already knew what you were walking into.

“You won’t have another chance.” Your mother whispered beside you.

“I will cherish this opportunity, Mother.”

She didn’t look at you. She hadn’t looked at you in a long time. Not really. Her gaze always seemed to move just past you — like you were an image she hadn’t fully decided to keep.

“This isn’t the pair of earrings I told you to wear.”

Your hand flew to your ear without thinking, brushing the tiny gold drops you’d chosen.

“You were supposed to wear the pearls. I told you twice.”

“I know.” You said, softly. “I forgot to bring them.”

She sighed. A short breath. Not angry. Just disappointed. And tired.

You were always tired around each other.

“Of course you did.”

You said nothing. There was nothing to say. You were already working so hard to hold yourself together, your smile strained at the edges, your spine starting to ache from how perfectly you were standing.

Ysera turned to you both, her voice gentle and practiced. “When you enter the hall, please sit immediately and do not speak until Her Grace, Lady Gojo, arrives. Do not interact with the others. Do not touch anything.”

You nodded. Your mother did the same.

Ysera stepped ahead and knocked on a tall, intricately carved white door.

It opened.

And for a moment, the world beyond it stole your breath.

The banquet hall was the largest room you had ever seen. The ceiling arched like a cathedral. Gilded columns stood in quiet rows along the walls, and between them, paintings — scenes of battles, saints, and heavenly skies — hung in golden frames as tall as you.

Statues stood like ghosts in the corners: marble maidens, a king holding a broken sword. Even the air smelled expensive — a blend of beeswax, rose oil, and something cool and sharp you couldn’t name.

But nothing — nothing — caught your attention like the table.

A single, enormous thing of polished mahogany, stretched the length of the room, set with silver platters and porcelain plates. Dozens of candles flickered in crystal holders, their flames casting shadows that danced across the glass. Every fork and knife was placed with precision, every napkin folded in identical perfection.

And around that table sat the other girls.

Three of them.

Each one more dazzling than the last.

Their dresses were made of the kind of fabric you’d only ever seen in paintings — silk that shimmered like water, lace so fine it looked like mist. Their jewelry sparkled with diamonds and pearls that didn’t catch the light — they commanded it. Their mothers sat beside them, regal and composed.

You had worn your finest gown. The one your mother had preserved from her younger years. You had tailored it yourself, adjusted the sleeves, stitched new embroidery along the hem.

You had thought it would be enough.

You were wrong.

They looked at you as you entered. All of them.

Not cruelly. Not even unkindly. Just… assessing. Like you were another item on the table, something to be weighed, compared, measured for worth.

And for the first time tonight, your smile nearly slipped.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself not to flinch under their eyes.

You had come this far.

You had to be perfect.

Even if it was already clear that perfection might not be enough.

The walk to your chair felt like a slow unraveling.

The stone floor echoed beneath your shoes, each step striking sharper than it should have. In the silence of the room, the sound was unkind — like you were announcing your presence when you would’ve rather disappeared.

No one spoke. Not even a polite murmur.

The three girls didn’t look at one another. They didn’t need to. The awareness in the room was a current — unseen, electric. You could feel it tightening around you with every step. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and already, you were being measured.

You wanted to look down.

But your mother’s voice echoed in your mind — firm, steady. “Head high. Chin soft. Never let them see where it hurts.”

So you did as she taught you. You lifted your gaze and let it drift, slow and deliberate, across the table.

Lady Taira.

Her silver gown shimmered like the moonlight. Every fold fell perfectly, not by accident — but because she’d been trained to make it seem accidental. Her wavy blonde hair had the kind of polish no brush could give without servants. And she sat like a statue — not stiff, but still. As if stillness was her natural state.

Your mother’s words came back to you, clipped and precise: “Baroness by title, but richer than half the dukes in the realm. Her family could buy land from the crown and not blink. She grew up in court — learned how to smile without warmth, and bow without bending. Watch her closely.”

Lady Vale.

She looked like something carved from ivory — soft, luminous, too pure to be real. Her dress shimmered like pearl dust, but her eyes… they gleamed. Curls were pinned atop her head, each one meticulous. She blinked slowly, almost too slowly.

“She’s the youngest, but don’t mistake that for innocence. Her family’s been loyal to the Gojo house for generations. Her father commanded the guard of the late Duke Gojo. She won’t make a scene — she’ll make allies. And she’ll do it quietly.”

And then — Condess Shinto.

There was no softness in her. Her eyes were green like shattered glass — beautiful, but not safe. She wore a dress the color of drying blood, velvet with a neckline like a blade. Around her throat sat a string of emeralds, polished to gleam like envy itself. She didn’t smile, not really. Not in any way that counted.

Your mother hadn’t even hesitated about her:

“She’s the favorite. Everyone knows it. Her uncle sits on the Council. Her cousins command fleets. She doesn’t have to try. The game is already rigged in her favor.”

You still remembered the day you found out a Condess — a woman with rank, wealth, and lineage — wasn’t the automatic choice for the Duke’s hand.

It had seemed impossible. If Condess Shinto wasn’t already chosen, then what were the rest of you doing here?

Even now, you didn’t have the answer.

They sat like portraits in a gallery — elegant, composed, untouchable.

You, by contrast, were a question mark. A curiosity.

A last-minute invitation.

A gamble made by a mother with nothing left but her name.

Still — you sat without flinching.

Lady Taira adjusted her glove with practiced indifference. Lady Vale blinked — slow, measured. Countess Shinto tapped one perfect nail against her glass, the sound sharp as judgment.

It was a game, all of it. And you were part of it, whether you liked it or not.

You were all pawns.

The only unfairness was that you were playing against perfection — girls raised for this moment, sculpted like marble into their roles. You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself you had no illusions. But sitting here, surrounded by them, it was hard not to feel the crushing weight of inadequacy.

Of course, you had been raised to be perfect too — taught the art of posture, of quiet obedience, of speaking only when spoken to. But as you looked around the table, at the glinting jewels, the practiced stillness, the effortless grace stitched into every gesture of the girls before you, you knew with aching certainty: you could never compare. Not to them. Not here. Not like this.

You had known, the moment you received the letter sealed with the Gojo crest, that this was far beyond you. You’d told yourself it was a formality. A courtesy. A trap, perhaps. But seeing them — the daughters of power and pedigree — was far more harrowing than any whispered rumor.

Your thoughts were scattered, tangled with tension, until—just for a flicker—you remembered the man in the garden.

The memory came soft at first: a breath of wind, the scent of crushed petals, the way the late sunlight caught the edge of his smile. He had seemed too unreal to belong to a place like this — and yet, in that moment, beside him, you had felt more yourself than you had in days. Maybe years.

Next to him, you had felt human.

Real.

Like you could belong in a place where flowers bloomed without permission and skies stretched wide and generous.

You barely caught yourself flushing, the ghost of that smile threatening to surface again.

And that’s when the door opened.

The great double doors at the far end of the hall parted without a single trumpet. Just the hush of wood and silk and breath. You turned delicately, instinctively, unsure of what you were expecting.

A woman entered — tall, composed, resplendent in restraint.

Duchess Midora Gojo.

You had heard the stories. Everyone had. That she’d ruled the Gojo estate with a blade sheathed in velvet. That she’d survived the fall of her husband without lowering her chin once. That she’d raised her son — the son — with wolves at the gate and knives at her back. And yet, no story prepared you for the sight of her.

She didn’t walk.

She arrived.

Her gown was navy, trimmed with gold — the kind of understated elegance that made more extravagant outfits look like theater costumes. The fabric shimmered subtly, embroidery catching only the softest hints of light. Her silver hair was braided into a crown, regal and exact. Not a single strand rebelled.

She did not smile.

She didn’t need to.

The Duchess moved to the head of the table, placed a single hand on the back of her chair — and stopped.

Without a word, every woman in the room stood. Including you.

You bowed your head, not out of respect but instinct. The atmosphere demanded it.

Her gaze swept the table slowly, like moonlight across still water. Calculated. Cold. Not unkind — but far from warm.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then her eyes found you.

It wasn’t just looking. It was the weight of being seen — truly, unmistakably seen. Her gaze was cool, discerning, a quiet threat wrapped in curiosity.

You didn’t blink.

Couldn’t.

Something told you that blinking would count against you.

So you held her eyes. Just long enough to feel the tremor of challenge. Until she moved on.

“Good evening.”

The women answered in perfect harmony. Like a prayer they’d recited since birth.

The Duchess sat. The rest of you followed.

Silence lingered, thick and reverent, until she spoke again — voice smooth but sharp as drawn steel.

“Ladies,” She said “you are here because your families have placed great faith in you. As have I.”

Her tone left no room for uncertainty.

“Conduct yourselves with composure. I expect grace. Poise. This is a demonstration.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Each word carried the weight of command — clean, final, unarguable.

“Each of you has been granted a seat. Whether you keep it,” She continued, her eyes gleaming with meaning, “depends on more than posture and pleasantries. The Duke will join us shortly.”

The mere mention of him was enough to set the air humming with tension. Some of the girls straightened in their chairs. Others held their breath.

The Duchess glanced toward the servants.

That was all it took.

They moved like clockwork — coordinated, efficient, silent. Wine was poured into crystal glasses. Platters were uncovered. Silverware gleamed. Aromas filled the air, rich and delicate. But no one relaxed. If anything, the tension only deepened. The ritual of dining had begun, and every movement now was a test.

You watched the girls — how they lifted forks with dainty precision, how they dabbed their lips, how they smiled just enough. Not too much. Never too much.

You mimicked them as best you could. Wrist poised. Chin tucked. Back unbending. You smiled when required. You didn’t breathe when you shouldn’t.

Across the table, Duchess Gojo engaged each mother in conversation — even yours. Her words weren’t warm, but they commanded. She dominated the room without trying. She didn’t need to try.

And then — it happened.

The door again.

You knew. Before you saw him. Before you heard a step.

The room didn’t just fall silent.

It held its breath.

You didn’t dare look. Looking would make it real. And part of you — the scared, unready part — didn’t want it to be real just yet.

There was no announcement.

No flourish.

No grand entrance.

Just the sound of footsteps.

Measured. Casual. Unhurried.

He moved through the room like the air adjusted for him. Like the space recognized who it belonged to. Like the walls bent slightly to accommodate his presence.

He took the seat beside the Duchess.

And your heart dropped.

No.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

The man from the garden. The stranger who had spoken to you like you mattered. Who had watched you reach for flowers like it was allowed. Who had made you laugh like it was safe.

You hadn’t just ruined everything.

You’d ruined it before it had even begun.

He was dressed now in formal regalia — a coat of midnight blue, its collar open with defiant elegance. Silver embroidery twisted along his sleeves like vines. A ceremonial sword hung at his hip, glinting softly. At his throat, the Gojo crest, a six-petaled flower.

He didn’t hurry.

Didn’t bow. Didn’t acknowledge.

And worst of all — he didn’t look at you.

Not even once.

Not a flicker of recognition.

Not even the smallest glance.

You looked down at your plate, fists clenched tight in your lap.

And still, your hands trembled.

You took a sip from your wine, careful not to gulp — though part of you wanted nothing more than to drain the whole glass and ask for another. You tried to look composed, as the Duchess demanded. Composed, like every other girl at the table seemed born to be.

But your chest was too tight. Your throat too dry.

You could only hope this was some cruel dream.

At first, you thought he wouldn’t speak — that he’d sit through the evening like a shadow cast by his mother’s presence. But then, quietly, effortlessly, he stood.

He did not need to raise his voice.

“Thank you all for coming.” He said, his posture relaxed but his tone exact. “My mother — Her Grace, Duchess Gojo — and I are pleased that your families have placed their trust in our name.”

It was him. You knew it. You would always know him by those eyes. But nothing else was the same.

The warmth was gone.

“This banquet.” He continued. “is simply a gesture of our appreciation.”

A lie — all of you knew that. Every girl seated here knew this was no simple dinner.

“I look forward to getting to know each of you in due time.”

And then — he smiled.

Not the off-kilter, boyish grin that had slipped free in the garden. No. This smile was sculpted. Beautiful. Practiced. The kind of smile that could win favor, or undo alliances, depending on where it was aimed.

His gaze moved from girl to girl — smooth, precise, unrevealing.

And when it landed on you, it did not soften.

It did not linger.

It did not recognize you.

Not truly.

And that, somehow, hurt more than if he hadn’t looked at you at all.

You held the eye contact because you had to. Because the rules of the room demanded it.

But inside, something cold was settling in your ribs — the slow realization that the man in the garden may never have existed at all.

Because standing before you now wasn’t him.

It was the Duke — Satoru Gojo. And there was no room in his eyes for who you’d been, or what you thought you’d shared.

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo smut #strangers to lovers #renaissance au #historical au #slow burn #jjk x you #jjk #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you

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darkmatilda · 2 days ago

Text

𝐆𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: teasing spencer leads him to attempt guessing the color of your underwear. and he (almost) gets it right.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, bar, teasing, lots of underwear talk — do i even need to say more?? oh and reader’s wearing a dress. and *surprise* underwear

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.1k (+ a little treat/surprise at the end!)

𝐚/𝐧: forehead kisses for the anons who inspired this idea LOVE U

“Hiding by yourself at the bar at your best friend’s birthday party? You should be ashamed, Spencer Reid.”

The man didn’t turn his head toward you right away, and he didn’t seem particularly surprised that you were calling him out. Well, he was indeed sitting at the bar without any of your other friends nearby, slightly hunched, with an expression that suggested he wasn’t in the mood to party—but hadn’t wanted to disappoint Penelope, so he’d shown up.

He had to know that his gloominess would soon draw you in.You took the most pleasure in teasing him when he was like this, which is why, the moment you caught his silhouette out of the corner of your eye, your legs practically carried you toward it on their own.

At the sight of you, he didn’t suddenly pull his shoulders back to look better, nor did he tilt his chin up with fake confidence. He only gave the slightest shrug—but you saw his gaze sweep deliberately over your body and outfit as you took a seat beside him, turning to face him directly.

Then his slow eye movement suddenly shot in another direction—he nodded toward something.

“As you can see, my best friend has more interesting things to do than play hide-and-seek with me,” he snorted, aiming the sarcastic edge at you and your earlier words rather than at Garcia.

You glanced in the direction he’d indicated, and your eyebrows twitched with interest at the sight of Penelope flirting with some man who was hunched forward to talk to her, trying to make up for the noticeable height difference.

“Our girl is busy hunting. Be patient with her,” you said in a scolding tone.

He caught your gaze, sending you a silent I’m being very patient—without even the faintest hint of a smile.But you weren’t interested in his moodiness just yet, and you ignored him for a moment, observing your friend’s seduction tactics—or rather, the man she was working them on.

“What do you think, profiler? Could there be something there?”

Spencer snorted.

“Exactly. Profiler. It’s usually part of my job to assess different things than whether my friend and some random guy are a match. Like, say…serial offenders.”

You grimaced at his condescending tone. Only then did the corner of his mouth twitch slightly, as if some internal smugness had just bubbled up.

“Imagine he is one of them,” you suggested.

“Then I wouldn’t be sitting here doing nothing. And I definitely wouldn’t be letting her talk to him,” he replied flatly.

You rolled your eyes with an exaggerated boring. Your irritation—entirely his fault—seemed to work like fuel for him. He fully turned to face you now, looking noticeably more energized.

“No, I don’t think anything could come of it,” he added. “Mostly because the guy’s married.”

Your skeptical look.

“Where does that certainty come from?”

“Profiler’s instinct. But seriously,” Spencer paused, resting one elbow on the counter and leaning slightly toward you to point something out with a tilt of his head. Before you followed his gaze, you took a moment to wonder whether he was wearing a different cologne than usual, or if you had simply forgotten what his regular one smelled like. Either way, it was pleasant. His eyes rested on your face for a second, as if to check whether he had your attention. He did. “Look. Every now and then he moves his hand like he wants to reach for his wedding ring. A typical married man reflex. But he stops himself so he won’t give it away. Just like now.”

The guy indeed made a slight motion with his hand, which he then let fall along his side. With Reid’s comment so close to your ear, it felt like you were watching a National Geographic documentary — except the narrator had a sexier voice.

“Also, see that lighter skin on his finger?”

You narrowed your eyes.

“I see it,” you admitted after a moment. “He tanned around the ring.”

He nodded approvingly.

“You’re learning fast.”

You didn’t let him mock you.

“Can I call myself a profiler now?” you asked.

You could see her barely holding back a scoff.

“To get that far, you’d have to draw a few more conclusions. What you just said—anyone who had a Sherlock Holmes phase as a kid could’ve picked up on it. Or just someone a bit more observant. A real profiler would’ve added something else.”

You stared at him for a moment before rolling your eyes toward the ceiling in mock surrender.

“Fine. Go ahead, show off, profiler.”

You knew he was waiting for that. He didn’t even acknowledge your sarcastic tone—he jumped straight into his explanation.

“Look at his posture. He’s trying way too hard to seem relaxed. Classic behavior for someone who hasn’t flirted in a long time. Which means this is probably his first slip—or attempt, anyway. He had a fight with his wife, it’s recent. He stormed out of the house angry, ended up here, tried to blow off steam. But the more he talks to Penelope, the more his confidence shrinks. Guilt’s creeping in. He didn’t cheat, but he’s guilty of the thought, and that’s enough to wreck his game. He’s getting quieter. Penelope’s picking up on it. Any second now she’ll decide she’s not into this conversation and walk away…”

Reid clapped his hands, triumphant.

Right on cue, Penelope turned and walked away from the guy.

You hadn’t planned to react, but your lips parted and an incredulous snort escaped before you could stop it. You turned to Spencer with open disbelief.

“No way,” you shook your head. You didn’t care how much it was feeding his ego. You shook your head again, more firmly. “No way. I hate you guys. And by you guys, I mean the entire BAU. You look at some random dude and see all that? Is it like that with everyone? You look at me and what—can you guess the color of my underwear or something?”

He listened to your rant with a deceptively neutral expression. Deceptive, because he was trying to look stoic, like your words and the reaction they provoked weren’t flattering him—when in fact, they totally were. Deceptive, because they added just enough fuel to his confidence that, for a second, it took over, slipped past his usual restraint and came out in the form of a smug:

“I could try.”

You tilted your head to the side. Your gaze held no hesitation, no uncertainty, and definitely no shyness—oh no, absolutely not. Your gaze said you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into? Because in no possible universe could you imagine the Spencer Reid you knew speculating about your underwear. Taking it off? Sure. But talking about it with you?

His expression tightened just slightly, like he already regretted his decision. And honestly? He probably did. But he didn’t backpedal with a hasty swallow and awkward excuse. Neither did you. You simply crossed one leg over the other and fixed him with an expectant look. There was already a smug, taunting smile settling comfortably on your lips.

He met your eyes and held them for a beat before taking in a slow breath. That familiar expression began to slide into place—the one that meant full focus, analytical gears turning.

“Well…where to begin,” he mused out loud, his eyes scanning you as if the color of your underwear might be conveniently written across your forehead. Spoiler. It wasn’t. “You’re dressed in black.”

A beat of silence. Your scoff.

“Congrats on the observation.”

“Which means you didn’t have to worry about any color showing through,” he cut in, completely ignoring your jab. Not in a saving face kind of way—he genuinely seemed not to hear it, totally immersed in the challenge he’d foolishly given himself. “So you didn’t have to limit yourself to neutral tones, like beige, which you might pick if you were wearing something light. So I’m assuming you took advantage of that and went with something dark.”

His gaze finally rose from your dress, locking with yours again.

“Hot and cold?” he asked.

“Am I allowed to give you hints?”

He sighed.

You had to admit—it was a good starting point. And maybe it was that tiny bit of appreciation that made you roll your eyes a moment later and mutter, “Burning.”

His grateful nod. The slight twitch of his mouth. He cleared his throat again, forcing himself to continue.

“You could still be wearing beige or white, though. But your outfit today is unusually simple, even boring, for you—”

“Thank you,” you cut in sharply, with a hiss at the end.

“...and you like to stand out, even if it’s just for yourself, so I think it’s not too crazy to assume you went with something bolder. That’s also why I’m ruling out black. Oh, and definitely nothing lacy.”

That last part made you frown. It was said with such certainty you didn’t understand where it came from.

“Profiler instinct again, or do you actually have reasoning to back that up?” you asked.

If everything he’d said up until now was laced with playful speculation, this part landed with surprising confidence. He even shrugged, like it was obvious.

“A bold color and lace is more of a...statement. Usually chosen by women who want to feel a boost of confidence. Which you don’t need. But more importantly, I just don’t think you’d wear something like that just to spend the evening at a bar with someone like me. And someone who’s now using profiling techniques to guess the color of your underwear for… reasons nobody can quite explain.”

The period at the end of his sentence was sharp, but short. He didn’t let you respond, immediately pushing forward.

“And it’s not red.”

That one made you forget everything he’d said before. You hadn’t expected him to rule out red so early. After all, it was—

“It’s your favorite color,” Spencer continued. “You agreed to this whole thing because you knew I knew that, and you were hoping I’d guess it and be wrong. If you were wearing red, you wouldn’t have brought this up at all.”

You were starting to struggle to keep up with his logic. Spencer, on the other hand, was beginning to sound more and more like a brilliant scientist obsessing over his favorite phenomenon. You stayed silent now, genuinely curious what he’d say next.

He wasn’t wrong. You weren’t wearing red underwear.

“So now I’m hesitating between two colors. Pink, dark pink, and navy blue. Both seem to fit, but I don’t know which one more, so I start considering the symbolism of the colors. Well, pink would be more sensual, even a little cheeky, worn under black clothing. But navy, on the other hand, symbolizes a certain seriousness, stability. Sophistication, even. In the end, I deeply doubt you were sitting by your underwear drawer wondering what your bra color symbolized,” a snort slipped out, but his cheeks began to turn a barely noticeable shade of red.

Well, one of you had to be wearing it that day. For the balance of the universe.

Spencer took another, though not his last, deep breath that evening with you. He took a moment before continuing.

You couldn’t say you weren’t waiting for it, not taking your eyes off him for a second.

“But in the end, I’m going with navy. Reasons are quite simple. First, profiler’s instinct. Second…in my…humble…opinion..you’d look better in blue.

He finally forced the words out, and you just kept looking at him. In his humble opinion.

Time passed, and he still didn’t get confirmation. All the more, you somehow couldn’t bring yourself to give it to him. Eventually, stiffly and still without a word, you nodded. Once.

“You’re almost right, Doctor Reid.”

He frowned.

“Almost?��

You grabbed the hem of your dress on the side that matched the pair, lifting it just briefly to the right height. Just for his eyes. Your underwear was, in fact, navy.

But also the kind he’d almost ruled out right at the start—lace.

heyy fic’s over tysm for reading but there’s a tiny surprise/crack bit down below if u wanna check it out

:)))

Penelope massaged her aching temples. Her head was literally splitting, not just from lack of sleep and the alcohol from the night before—in short, her birthday night out with friends. The pain was made worse by the countless screens surrounding her and what was on them. Case files, faces of murderers, often graphic photos.

Ugh. She needed to look at pictures of tiny fluffy kittens.

She scrolled through those little creatures for about five minutes, after which she felt slightly better. She didn’t have anything urgent to do anyway, so she opened Reddit. Just a place where people sometimes asked weird, often hilarious questions.

One of them immediately caught her attention. She clicked.

coworker guessed the color of my underwear and im going ABSOLUTELY FERAL?? 💀💀💀

okay so i’m female and there’s this guy i fw pretty well but he usually pisses me off but yesterday we were at this bar and i was kinda teasing him and told him to guess the color of my underwear and he analyzed me like fucking einstein and GUESSED???? and the worst part is it turned me on??? like somehow it was the most county thing i’ve ever seen and i’ve seen a lot + he literally had his shirt buttoned all the way up to his neck what is WRONG with me

Penelope burst out laughing and her fingers almost instinctively reached for the keyboard.

gurl you just like him! <3

#spencer reid criminal minds #diva reader ♱#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #criminal mind #spence reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfic

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heavenlybodies333 · 2 days ago

Text

Fixation -A.H

Aaron Hotchner x coworker!reader

The unsub sat shackled at the table, hunched but humming—this low, breathy sound that made your skin crawl as soon as the heavy door shut behind you. You moved just slightly behind Hotch, and his presence blocked the man’s view of you for a moment.

But the second you stepped to Hotch’s right and sat down, the unsub locked in. Like he’d been waiting for you. Your breath hitched—barely—but it was enough. He noticed.

“Agent,” he greeted, smiling at you, not Hotch. “You’re prettier in person.” Hotch’s eyes cut to you immediately, picking up on the freeze in your posture. He turned back to the man, jaw flexing. “You already know that comment’s not going to help you.”

The unsub didn’t blink. Just stared at you. Your badge. Your neckline. Your hands. “Do you wear that lipstick for the job, or for me?” he asked, smile widening.

Hotch didn’t wait—his fingers snapped toward the one-way mirror. “Tighten the restraints. Now.”

Two guards came in instantly. One placed a firm hand on the unsub’s shoulder, forcing him down as the other jerked the cuffs tighter around his wrists, metal biting into skin. He flinched but didn’t yell. Didn’t even wince. His eyes were still on you, hungry, assessing.

You inhaled, then exhaled carefully. He wanted a reaction. You didn’t give him one. Until you had to lean forward and push the file across the table.

That’s when he moved. Just a shift. Just a lean. But it was deliberate—his face closer to yours than you liked, enough that your own twisted in disgust before you could stop it.

“Stop,” Hotch said, his voice dark, deadly. His tone was enough to freeze the unsub in place. Still, the bastard smiled. “You’re not gonna let her talk for herself, Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch reached forward and took the file you’d opened, flipping it toward the unsub himself. His broad shoulders shifted, moving slightly in front of you again.

“She doesn’t need to,” Hotch said. “I already know what you are.”

“She’s better than the others,” he purrs. “You see it too. That’s why you walked in front of her. Like a shield. That’s sweet, Agent Hotchner. She deserves someone strong.”

You barely resist the urge to snap back. But Hotch’s hand reaches out—under the table—and briefly brushes your knee. A silent signal: Don’t react. Let me handle it.

“Why would I look at those,” he rasped, his voice low and oily, “when I’ve got her to look at instead?”

You froze. Hotch’s fingers twitched near his pen. His tone stayed flat. “That’s not how this works.”

“I already know all about her,” the unsub continued, still smiling. “She runs at five-thirty in the morning. Orders that lavender tea at the café across from the field office. Drives a black bmw. License plate ends in... seven-two-nine. Right?”

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t answer. You didn’t move.

Hotch stood abruptly. “You’re done.”

“No,” the unsub said, eyes still locked on you, smile growing. “I’m just getting started.”

Hotch was already at the door, signaling for the guard again. You stood slower, trying not to let the nausea show.

“You’ll speak to me,” Hotch said, voice a dark, contained growl. “Not her.”

“She’s the one I’ve been thinking about.”

“She’s not the one you're confessing to.”

“She’s the reason I started.” The unsub grinned, wild and victorious. “And she’ll be the reason I finish.”

You stood so fast your chair scraped backward, screeching against the floor.

Hotch turned to you instantly. “Agent,” he said quietly—his voice gentle now, only for you. “Step out.”

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, jaw clenched.

His eyes searched yours for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded once.

The unsub chuckled. “Cute. Like a guard dog. I bet you like it when he barks for you.”

Hotch moved before you could blink. He was on the table, both hands planted, leaning in so close his voice was practically in the unsub’s ear.

“Say one more word about her,” Hotch growled, “and I will make sure your sentence includes solitary until you rot.”

Hotch’s hands were still flat on the table, his broad shoulders locked in tension. He didn’t move until he was sure the man’s mouth would stay shut.

“Guard. Get him out,” Hotch snapped, low and lethal.

The unsub laughed as the door slammed open behind you again. “You’ll think about me, sweetheart,” he called as they dragged him backward, wrists still bleeding from the restraints. “When you’re alone. When he’s not around to protect you.”

“Let’s go,” Hotch muttered under his breath to you, not even glancing back at the unsub again. His hand grazed your lower back as you turned—protective, firm, grounding.

You walked out together in silence, the door slamming shut behind you, drowning out the last of the unsub’s twisted chuckles.

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice lower now, quiet. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Just... hate how he looked at me. Like he knew me.”

Hotch nodded slowly. “He’s been watching. We found photos in his storage unit. Some were taken last week.”

Your stomach dropped. “Of me?”

Hotch hesitated. “Of your apartment. Your car. A few of you in your running gear.”

You swallowed hard.“I had no idea—”

“That’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly. “He’s good at hiding. That ends now. I should’ve gone in alone.”

You turned toward him, surprised. “Why?”

His jaw tightened again. That same damn muscle. “Because I saw the look in his eyes when you walked in,” he said, stepping closer, voice low. “And I knew exactly what he was thinking.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. He paused, then stepped just a little closer.

“You shouldn’t go home alone tonight.”

That surprised you. “I wasn’t planning to.”

His brows lifted just a fraction. “Good. Because I wasn’t going to let you.” That made your heart skip. Not because of what he said—but how he said it.

“I’ll stay at a hotel,” you murmured.

He paused, then offered, “You could stay at mine.”

You looked up. His expression didn’t change. He wasn’t playing. Wasn’t flirting. It wasn’t about that. It was about keeping you safe.

“…Okay,” you whispered. “Yeah. That’s probably best.”

His shoulders eased slightly.

And it wasn’t long before you found yourself standing in the hallway just outside his bedroom door, suddenly uncertain.

Hotch stepped behind you again. Close. Just like in the interrogation room.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said, already reading your hesitation.

“No,” you said quickly. “You don’t have to.”

He paused. “I want you to feel safe.”

“I do,” you whispered, looking back at him. “With you.”

“I’ll get you a shirt,” he murmured.

A moment later he returned and handed you a long, soft cotton t-shirt—gray, plain, worn thin at the collar.

You took it with a grateful smile and went into the bathroom.

When you came out, you were swimming in the shirt. It hit halfway down your thighs. Your legs were bare. You had never felt so exposed in something so modest.

Hotch was already lying down, propped on one elbow, the comforter pulled up around his waist. He wore a black t-shirt and soft plaid pajama pants. You had never, in your life, seen him so…human.

You climbed in slowly, tentatively. His side of the bed was warm. Yours felt cold.

It was awkward. Weirdly awkward.

And that’s when it hit you. A sudden, absurd giggle bubbled up in your throat.

Hotch turned toward you, brow furrowed. “What?”

You bit your lip, grinning. “Nothing. It’s just—” You gestured vaguely at him. “Seeing you like this—in actual pajamas—? It’s adorable. I’m sorry, I can’t unsee it.”

He stared for a beat, expression unreadable. You swallowed hard, worried you might’ve crossed a line.

But then—then—he smiled. That small, rare curve of his lips that made you feel like the only person in the world.

“Oh?” he murmured, turning fully toward you. “You think I’m cute?”

“Don’t twist my words,” you warned, still smiling. “You’re intimidating as hell at work.”

“But not now?”

You looked at him—really looked—and swallowed hard. “No. Now you’re…”

Your voice faltered.

Hotch’s hand lifted slowly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Safe,” you whispered. “You feel safe.”

His fingers didn’t move from your face. “I want you to feel safe,” he said softly. “Always.”

You exhaled shakily. “Even now?”

“Especially now.”

He curled it around your waist and slowly, slowly pulled you into him.

His body was so warm—heat radiating off him like a furnace—and you exhaled the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His chest was solid, his hold careful. Too careful. Like he didn’t trust himself.

You nestled into him, your nose at his shoulder, cheek resting against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. You smiled against him.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“I’m not,” he said immediately.

“You are, Hotch,” you laughed. “Your arm feels like it’s trying to protect the nuclear codes.”

His chest rumbled faintly in amusement. “I’m trying to be respectful.”

You smiled wider. “You’re letting me cuddle you. That’s pretty respectful.”

He didn’t argue that.

You tilted your head up slightly, looking toward the sharp line of his jaw in the dark.

“I’m not gonna combust if you relax.”

He didn’t say anything, but the arm around your waist loosened just a little. He exhaled—and the tension in his chest eased. Just enough to make you feel it. You took your chance.

You reached up slowly and ran your fingers through his hair.

At first, he flinched—just a twitch, barely noticeable. But then he stilled, letting you continue.

Your hand moved lower, smoothing down over his chest, then his shoulder, until it found one of his hands resting on his stomach.

His huge hand.

You picked it up gently, letting his fingers relax in your grip.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low.

You cradled his palm and gently cracked one of his knuckles.

He winced. “That hurts.”

You looked up, mock-pouting. “You’re supposed to say thank you.”

He chuckled. “For joint pain?”

“For your nerves. You’re all… balled up like a stress knot.” You moved to his other hand, gently stretching each finger. “And this one? This one’s the button-pushing hand. I bet it’s tired from dealing with assholes all day.”

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

You tilted your head and reached up to brush your fingers through his hair—soft, thicker than it looked at work, with the faintest wave. He looked down at you, stilling completely under your touch.

“You’re really bad at relaxing,” you whispered.

“And you’re really good at tempting me,” he said softly.

You leaned in again, closer this time, your legs brushing. His arm came around you slowly, tentatively, drawing you toward his chest until your head rested just below his collarbone.

You exhaled shakily. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and quiet. “Just… not used to this.”

You tilted your head to look at him. His expression was unreadable in the low light, but his jaw was tight.

“Your hands,” you said quietly, lifting one of them between your palms. “They're so big.”

His brows lifted slightly. “That a problem?”

“No,” you said, voice dipping. “It’s hot.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but his thumb rubbed lightly across your side. You turned his palm over and started gently cracking his knuckles again. One by one. Each pop was soft, and you smiled as you moved to the next.

But when you got to his index finger and pressed just enough—

“Mm—hey,” he winced, pulling his hand back slightly. “That actually hurts.”

You blinked. “Seriously? You wrestle unsubs to the ground, but you can’t handle me cracking your knuckles?”

“I don’t wrestle people who sneak up and break my fingers.”

You laughed again, more relaxed now, and leaned in close enough that your nose brushed his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you said with a smirk. “You’re so delicate, Hotch.”

He turned to look at you, and this time, he was smiling. Really smiling. Barely-there dimple, soft eyes, warmth radiating from him.

“You think I’m delicate?”

“I think you’re secretly a marshmallow,” you whispered, inching even closer. “All this serious FBI Alpha Male stuff is just an act.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.

You swallowed. Suddenly very aware of how close you were. Of his hand on your waist. Of the warmth between you. Of the ridiculous oversize shirt that was definitely not a barrier. Not now.

“Is that what you really think?” he asked, voice so low it made your skin prickle.

You tilted your chin up slightly, your lips dangerously close to the line of his jaw. “Maybe.” Your hands in his hair, soft and uncertain, pulling him in closer. Your lips brushed again, then again—until it turned into something real. Something deep and needy and so full of everything you hadn’t said.

Hotch shifted, rolling you gently onto your back, his body hovering over yours, held up on one arm.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured against your cheek.

“I’m nervous,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, gaze dark and quiet and far too intense for the softness of the moment.

Your heart stuttered. Your legs shifted, thighs tightening as you accidentally ground your hips slightly against his under the covers.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening.

You surged up into him, kissing him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he slid a thigh between yours. His weight was comforting, grounding—and yet, your whole body felt like it was floating.

He pulled back slightly, lips brushing yours. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I won’t,” you whispered. “Not with you.”

Hotch’s mouth found your neck—slow and reverent, dragging warmth down your throat as he settled between your legs. His hands roamed cautiously under the hem of your borrowed shirt, palms warm and rough on your bare skin.

You moaned softly as his thigh slid between yours, pressing.

“You have no idea what it did to me,” he whispered into your skin, “hearing him talk about you like that.”

“I hated it,” you breathed. “I wanted to claw his face off.”

Hotch laughed. “That’s my girl.”

The words hit you straight in the core—made you shiver.

His hands moved beneath the shirt he’d given you, sliding along your bare thighs, up to your hips. When he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath, his breath hitched.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look down at you. “You’re not wearing—?”

You flushed. “Didn’t feel like it.”

In one fluid motion, he sat up, his arms wrapping around you, mouth claiming yours again—hotter, hungrier now. You let him take the lead, let him slide your shirt up over your head and toss it somewhere off the bed. The way he looked at you then—like reverence, like worship—made heat pool between your legs.

“You’re beautiful,” he rasped, fingertips ghosting down your spine. “So fucking beautiful.”

You gasped when he leaned forward, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue flicking over it before he sucked—slow, teasing, patient. One hand moved between your legs, fingers brushing you just enough to feel the slickness there.

He tugged his waistband down just enough to free himself, and you gasped at the sight of him—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

You reached down and gripped him, guiding his head to your entrance. The first brush made both of you groan.

The second his tip slid through your slick. “Fuck, sweetheart—look at you.” Hands tightening around your hips.

You lowered yourself slowly, inch by inch, your thighs trembling at the stretch.

“That’s it,” Hotch growled. “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

Once he was fully inside, you sat still for a second, breathing shallowly.

He brushed your cheek again. “Look at me.”

You did—and that’s when it changed. Because there wasn’t just lust in his eyes. There was something far deeper. Something that told you this wasn’t just sex for him.

You whimpered and leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, and the shift in angle made stars flash behind your eyes. He pushed up into you now, shallow, controlled thrusts that made your clit drag just right with every motion.

Your thighs trembled as you moved, your breaths turning into gasps. He sat up slightly, arms wrapping around your back, and you clung to him as you moved together.

“I’ve never…” you breathed against his neck. “I’ve never felt like this with anyone.”

He stilled inside you, holding you tight. “That’s because they didn’t deserve you.”

You clutched at his shirt. “But you do?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark and reverent.

“I’m going to earn you,” he said. “Every day.”

Your heart cracked open. You kissed him with everything you had, hips rolling down onto him again, chasing that high, and he let you ride it out, guiding you with soft praise and firm hands and that warmth—God, that unshakable, grounding warmth.

And when you came, it was with his arms wrapped tight around you, his voice in your ear, whispering that you were safe.

That you were his.

a/n: raw.

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

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nineteenninety-six · 2 days ago

Note

I hope I don’t send this 1000 times but tumblr glitched

Could you write with Jack abbot , like his neighbour (reader) knocks on his door and she’s like should I go to the er and he looks down and she’s managed to cut like her palm and he ends up stitching it himself (cause of course he has a kit) and like it would kinda be a plus if she was kinda scared of hospitals and stuff cause comforting jackkkkk

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Reader

TW: Medical inaccuracies. reader get injured. Jack stitches her up.

AN: I'm gonna reopen up my requests \O/

Hurried, rapid knocking on his door pulls Jack's attention away from the hockey game he was watching and he bites back a frustrated groan at the noise. He had a rare weekend off and that meant no disruption and he had warned all his friends and family about that, the only exception being emergencies.

The knocking quietened for a moment before it started back up, and then panic shot through him. He had his phone on DND and perhaps there was an actual emergency and no one could get through to him so they came to his apartment but a check through his phone showed no texts or missed calls.

Jack pondered for a few moments on whether or not he should return to watching the game or answer the door before he settled back into the couch, watching as Sidney Crosby dangle the puck through the Oilers defence and score a goal.

"Jack…? Please tell me you're in right now."

Jack perks up at the familiar voice that comes through the door, it was his nextdoor neighbour. You guys weren't exceptionally close, friendly to each other, greeting each other as you passed by and sometimes you would drop off baked goods to him if you had extra or felt exceptionally neighbourly. He'd always thought you were attractive but he was a good couple of years older than you and he didn't want to misstep and make things awkward.

The panic and worry in your voice brings Jack to his feet and he hurries to his door hoping to catch you before you turn away. He swings the door open and finds you there with your right arm held above your head, hand wrapped in a tea towel that was darkened with your blood.

Relief bleeds into your expression at the sight of him, "Oh thank God, you're home."

"What happened?" Jack asks, hand automatically reaching for you injured one.

"Sorry to disturb you but I remembered you're a doctor and honestly, I'm not the biggest fan of hospitals." You wince. "I cut myself whilst cooking."

Jack ushers you further into his apartment, sitting you at the kitchen island before he collects the first aid kit he keeps underneath his kitchen sink.

"Let me take a look," Jack says as he settles into the seat beside you, gently resting your injured hand on the counter before he slips his glasses on to get a better look.

Your lips tug as you watch him slip his glasses on. You knew he was a bit older than you but the visual of him needing 'reading' glasses was a funny sight.

"Keep laughing and I'll send you over to the ED" Jack murmurs, eyes still on your hand, "I'll have you know that I'm a very capable doctor, glasses or not."

Your uninjured hand covers your mouth as you muffle the laughter that erupts at his words, "I would never judge your skills as a doctor, Jack."

Jack finally finishes analysing your hand as he straightens up and looks over at you, "Good because you absolutely need stitches."

You felt your stomach twist at his words and your lunch threatened to make an appearance. You hated hospitals and you always tried your best to avoid landing in one but it seemed like your luck had run out.

Jack watches your reaction, quickly figuring out why you reacted like you did.

"I have a suture pack, I can do it here if you'd prefer?"

"Oh Jack, I'll bake you a whole tray of muffins if you can do it here."

Jack huffs a laugh at your words before he nods, "I'll go grab it. Stay here."

You look around his apartment whilst he's gone from the room. You can see his degrees hanging on the wall, along with pictures of friends and family, the ones where he's clearly deployed abroad sticking out to you. His place was comfy yet obviously showed the signs of its owner not being in it often, twelve hours shifts keeping him busy.

"Snooped enough?" Jack asks as he returns to the kitchen with the suture pack.

"I didn't snoop," You deny, "I merely…looked. Analyzed."

Jack began to sanitize the counter, wiping it down, along with the chairs for good measure before he set up shop.

"Okay, I'll rephrase my question." Jack says as he waves you towards the chair, "Analyzed enough?"

"Yeah, I learned a few things about you." You say as you settle down, setting your hand down on the table.

"Yeah?" Jack spared a glance at you before he put his glasses on and snapped gloves on. "This will hurt, I don't have anything that will numb the area and you'll have to survive off of ibuprofen or paracetamol."

You nod, you'd rather deal with the pain than go to the hospital and so to distract yourself you begin to talk.

"I didn't know you were in the military," You say as Jack flushes your wound.

You half expect Jack to give you a half answer or even not answer at all but he easily answers as he begins to stitch up.

"Yeah, joined straight after high school. Always wanted to go to college and become a doctor but the traditional route wasn't for me."

You pause before you ask your next question, "Do you think it was worth it?"

Jack paused what he was doing at your question, eyes fluttering up to yours before they flick back down to the instruments in his hands but he answers as he pierces your skin.

"I lost a lot. More than I ever imagined I would," Jack's words are gentle as he focuses on what he was doing, "But I don't regret it. I wouldn't be the man I am today if I didn't serve."

"Well I'll make sure I bake you your favourite dessert for veterans day. Just for you." You say through gritted teeth.

Jack pulls back with a smile which slowly erupts into laughter, "And what about Military Appreciation Month? What do I get for that?"

"Whilst I love that you believe in my skills and talents, I can't bake you something everyday for a month." You joke, "Were you thinking of something specific?"

Jack waits until he ties off the thread and snips the extra off before he answers.

"How about a date?"

You blink at Jack in slight confusion. Sure you thought your neighbour was attractive, his grey curls and light eyes made every woman in the apartment block swoon but in the years you had been neighbours, your interactions were minimal.

"A date?"

"You can say no, don't feel pressure just because I patched you up." Jack reassures you.

"No-no! I'd really like to go on a date with you," You reach over with your uninjured hand and rest it on his thigh, "Not pressured at all!"

"When are you free?" Jack asks.

"I feel like I should be asking you that instead considering your shift patterns," You say as you pull your hand back from his thigh and hold it out expectantly, "Pass me your phone and I'll give you my number."

Jack does as he's asked and you tap your number in, drop calling your phone so you also have his number before you return his phone to him.

"I'll text you." You smile at him.

"I'll look forward to it." Jack returns your smile, "Now let me wrap your hand before I send you back home."

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt x reader #the pitt imagines #jack abbot #jack abbott #dr abbot x reader #the pitt #dr abbott x reader

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thehatboxwitch · 1 day ago

Text

in gentle captivity

gentle ways they coerce you into submission.

characters: phainon, mydei, anaxa

i just wanted to write something fluffy 😔

phainon

you glare at him balefully from the other side of the bed, your arms wrapped around you, shivering like a leaf in the wind.

“come on.” he gestures at you, giving you those pleading, adorable, puppy dog eyes.

phainon’s holding the blanket hostage. his arms are open. and the night is very, very cold.

“c’mon,” he coos again, and when he wiggles closer, you find it hard to turn away from the inviting warmth.

“there we go,” he says, voice muffled by the blanket. he bundles you up into his arms, against his solid chest, locking his legs around you. “there you go. come snuggle.”

despite yourself, you find your muscles relaxing, as phainon strokes his fingers through you hair, massaging at the top of your neck. it feels so unfairly nice, the way he envelopes you completely through sheer size alone, holding you with just enough pressure to be cosy.

you try making a sound of displeasure, but it’s hard when your voice is muffled by his chest. and you decide it’s okay if phainon wins - for today, at least.

mydei

“open up,” he tells you sternly.

“no,” you reply sharply. though you suppose your threatening face rather loses its edge when you’re lying weak in bed with a raging fever and a churning stomach.

“don’t be stubborn. i don’t have all day.”

the juxtaposition of big, scary mydeimos trying to feed you a bowl of hot soup he’d made would be quite jarring to the casual onlooker. but for the past few days, you’ve realised that he has the meticulous hand for caring for people as he nursed you slowly but surely back to health.

you squeak in surprise when mydei reaches forward and squishes your cheeks in a hand. he blows on the spoon, and delivers it skilfully into your mouth like a mama bird.

you swallow, because you’re not a child (and his cooking is too good to go to waste.)

“i’m not a baby,” you add uselessly. “you don’t have to feed me.

“i know,” he replies, with the patience of a mother too tired to correct her petulant child, and you feel sufficiently chided that you keep your mouth shut until he's done feeding you.

anaxagoras

it’s not often that anaxagoras keeps his mouth shut, but when he does, you know him well enough to know that he’s observing something.

typically that something is you. but still, you yelp quietly when he seemingly wanders up into your vicinity and claps his hands onto your shoulders.

“what the f- oh.”

anaxa forces your shoulders down, pressing into the pressure points with surprising force. it hurts, but you hadn’t noticed your tenseness until he works it out of you, methodically, robotically. it feels nice - if you put aside who's massaging you and how unfeelingly he's doing it.

“you’ve been… ahem.” he clears his throat. “you’ve been looking very… tense.”

“wow. i wonder why,” you reply drily. wasn’t this a problem of his own making? still, it was nice to be looked after, for once.

both of you spend a moment in silence.

“i’m surprised you noticed,” you murmur faintly.

his silence is notably loud. "...why would i not have noticed?"

"hm," you reply. "i don't know."

perhaps it was the way he seemed to see you as more of an experiment than a human person. if your feelings weren't serving his hypothesis, anaxa tended to brush them off. it was easy to feel lesser-than - even when all the while you were fighting to be otherwise.

you swallow back your pride. “this is… nice,” you force out.

anaxa’s hands pause. “…yes?”

you nod, hesitantly.

“good.” and though you can’t see his face, you get the distinct feeling he might be smiling.

a hatbox summer event

if you enjoy my work, rbs help the most! ⭐️

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail #star rail #yandere hsr #yandere anaxa #anaxa #anaxagoras x reader #anaxagoras hsr #yan!anaxa #yandere phainon #yan!phainon #yandere mydei #yan!mydei #phainon hsr #phainon x reader #mydei hsr #mydei x reader

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wonubby · 2 days ago

Text

so perfect - k! bakugou

cw: none, bakugou's just such a cutie! also tooth rotting fluff ^_^

a/n: wrote this while listening to she looks so perfect, if you couldnt tell

yeah, he loved you.

he's always known he's loved you. the only problem was that you didn't know. well, you kind of knew; he just hasn't said it out loud.

but seeing you in his bed, lying in an oversized shirt and a random pair of boxers you stole from his drawer, made him want to say it.

"why're u starin' at me, freak?" you giggled, looking up from your phone at the boy.

a pinkish hue scattered against his cheeks at your words, glancing away. "im looking at how ugly you are; why did i let you into my dorm again?" he scoffed, the corners of his lips turning up.

"haha, you're hilarious, kats. you literally asked me to come. now what's up?" you gave him a pointed look, sitting up to face him.

"nothing, 'm just tired." he gave a quick excuse, bashfully rubbing his hand against his neck.

squinting at him, you sigh before letting it go. "oh well, come sit; i wanna sleep and i need my furnace to keep me warm." you pat the spot next to you, slightly shuffling back.

he gave you an incredulous look. "get the fuck out of my bed. you aren't sleeping here." he grabbed your arm, pulling you up and out of the comfy sheets.

"hey! you ass, what're you doing!" you shrieked as he wrapped himself around you.

he didn't respond, only burying his head in your neck, sending tickles down your spine. consciously, you wrapped your arms around slowly, worried about the sudden change of attitude.

"kats? are you okay?" your voice was so sweet it made his head nudge your chin.

"yo... ook... so... fect.." his voice was muffled so you could really hear him.

grabbing him by the hair, you pulled him away from your neck, staring into his vermilion eyes.

"what?" you whispered. "i didn't get any of that. can you repeat it for me?"

"i said, you look so perfect."

you were frozen, staring at him in the eyes in shock. did your childhood best friend just call you perfect...?

he stepped back, gulping. "shit... sorry, i." he opened and closed his mouth like a fish, hustling a hand through his delicate, gorgeous hair.

"i really fucking like you, and you're out here prancing around my room in my fucking American Apparel underwear, and, god, you're so gorgeous."

it was your turn to blush now, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze.

"i really, really like you, y/n, and, fuck, maybe i love you? i don't fucking know, sorry-"

he was cut off when you placed your lips on his, taking his breath away. slowly, but surely, he melted into the kiss. sweaty hands pulling you into him with a need never experienced before.

breaking away, you smiled at him. "kats, i like- no. i love you too."

with a grin, he pulled you back into a hug, finally feeling at peace.

"hey bakugou!" all of a sudden, the four idiots he reluctantly called his friends entered the room.

"OH?!" mina shouted, practically jumping in her spot.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

#bakugou katsuki #x reader #katsuki bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo x female reader #bakugou x you #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x female reader #mha bakugou #bakugo katuski

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pitlanepeach · 22 hours ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, birth, post-birth emotional disconnect.

Notes — Feeling sentimental. I really love you all so much. Thank you for your support and interest in this fic. It has meant the world to me. That said... TWO MORE CHAPTERS TO GO

2024

This was not the plan.

Barefoot was not the plan. Leggings soaked through with amniotic fluid and pain spiking low in her back like white-hot wire as her mom helped her out of the car was not the plan.

Thirty-eight weeks wasn’t pre-term. Everyone kept reassuring her, saying that she was full-term. Normal. Fine. But it wasn’t the plan. Her spreadsheet had said forty weeks. Her due date was still two weeks away.

Her brain had been prepped for forty. And this — this was chaos.

The private maternity wing at Northamptonshire General was everything she’d asked for. Calm. Modern. Quiet.

But not now.

Now it was too bright. Too noisy. Too uncontrolled.

Amelia flinched as the double doors to the ward opened automatically, the high-pitched whirring mechanical sound cutting sharp through her head. She shrank in on herself as the fluorescent lights bounced off polished linoleum and made her vision haze.

Her hands fluttered in midair, then pinched hard at the inside of her elbows. Over and over. She knew it was going to leave bruises. She didn’t care.

“Contraction,” she gasped, one hand bracing the wall. “Stop. Wait—”

Tracey was there, one hand between Amelia’s shoulder blades, the other pressing the call bell. “You’re okay, baby,” her mum whispered. “You’re doing so good.”

Amelia shook her head rapidly, breath catching in her throat. The pain wrapped around her middle like a vice and pulled. The floor tilted. The lights burned through her skull. Her mouth opened but nothing came out except a panicked inhale.

“Amelia?”

The voice was low. Calm. Warm, but neutral. Controlled.

Fiona.

Familiar. Early 40s. Irish accent. Quiet shoes. Soft jumper. Smelled like vanilla and Dettol. Amelia had met her a handful of times now, for appointments. She liked Fiona. Fiona didn’t make her feel like she was wrong for needing things said twice, or for needing silence, or for asking for bullet points on birth options.

“Alright. Hi, honey. It’s good to see you. I’ve got you,” Fiona said, stepping in close without touching her. “You're safe. The lights are bright, I know. We’re going to move to a quiet room, and there’s some fairy lights strung up in there. Would that help?”

Amelia nodded so fast her braid whipped against her shoulder.

“Can I take your hand?” Fiona asked gently.

Another nod. Shaky this time.

Fiona’s hand was warm. Dry.

They turned the corner into a private room, and as soon as the door shut behind them, Fiona moved with crisp efficiency — lowering the lights, drawing the blinds, speaking to the nurse in a clipped whisper. The temperature adjusted. The tones softened.

Still, Amelia kept stimming — fingers now tapping the underside of her chin in fast, repeated bursts. The pain was stealing her words.

She needed Lando.

“I’m going to say everything out loud before I do it, okay?” Fiona said. “Your blood pressure, then we’ll get you on the monitor. You’re safe. Nothing’s being done without your say-so.”

“Where’s—” Amelia rasped.

“Lando?” Tracey translated from her side, rubbing her shoulder. “He’s coming, baby. Three hours. Your dad just text. They're already on the plane.”

Amelia shook her head again, furious tears springing to her eyes. “He should—he should’ve answered the phone. Why didn’t he—he should have answered my call.”

“I know,” Fiona said softly, and she meant it. “I know. But you’re doing this. And you are not alone. Do you want your headphones?”

Amelia blinked.

“I remember you had sensory overload in your birth plan. I’ve got noise-cancelling ones I can give you. Music, white noise, or just silence.”

“White noise,” Amelia croaked.

Fiona pulled them from the drawer. Slid them on gently. Adjusted them without touching her ears.

The static hum clicked on and it helped.

The room dulled. The air stopped buzzing so loud. Her limbs stopped flinching like she was being shocked.

“Better?” Fiona asked.

Amelia gave a thumbs up.

“Okay, love. We’ll time the next contraction together. You just let it happen. I’ll talk you through everything. Then I’m going to pop your legs up, and we’ll see how dilated you are, okay?”

Amelia nodded.

Squeezed her mom's hand with bone-breaking force.

And held tight to the image of Lando — messy curls, warm eyes, that breathless voice — walking through the door.

He would come.

She just had to hold out until he did.

—

Lando was pacing.

Still in his race suit, hair matted to his forehead, jaw locked so tight it ached.

The garage was quiet—the kind of quiet that only follows an early retirement. It wasn’t peace. It was tension. It was post-mortem silence.

It was stunned mechanics and snapped radio comms and the faint echo of tyres being wheeled away.

On the overhead screen, Oscar was being handed the P2 trophy on the podium.

Lando couldn't even look.

He was still reliving Turn 3.

The outside line. Max. The squeeze. The goddamn nudge.

The second he felt the contact, he knew it was done.

Puncture. Floor damage. Game over.

Both of them out. Two DNFs. No points. Just fury.

He’d thrown his gloves across the garage the moment he climbed out.

Now his hands were still shaking, chest still tight with adrenaline and rage.

“Fucking dickhead,” he muttered under his breath, pacing. “Every time. Every single fucking time—he can’t help himself.”

No one said anything. No one dared.

The media would already be writing the headlines.

‘Norris cracks under championship pressure.’

He didn’t care.

His phone had buzzed three times. He didn’t look at it.

He didn’t want to see who the hell was brave enough to be the first one to call him.

Didn’t want to deal with PR or statements or apologies.

He just wanted to scream. And maybe punch Max in the face.

He spun again—too fast. Nearly walked straight into Zak.

“Jesus, Lando—” Zak grabbed his arm. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know,” Lando snapped, still breathless, still fuming. “Sorry. I just—Max—he fucking ruined it.”

Zak didn’t even flinch. “Forget Max. You need to listen to me. We have to go. Now.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“What?” he said, blinking. “Go where?”

“Home. To England. Amelia just called.”

The words hit harder than the collision.

His face drained. All the heat of his anger snapped to cold panic.

“What—what's wrong?” His voice cracked.

“She’s in labour. Tracey’s with her. She tried to call you—she’s okay, far as I know—but it’s happening. Now.”

Lando staggered back a step, pulling out his phone with shaking hands.

Three missed calls. Two texts. One from Tracey. One from Amelia.

Amelia:

IN LABOUR!

Tracey:

She’s okay. We’re on our way to the hospital. Northamptonshire, as planned. Get here fast.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing the phone to his forehead. “I didn’t answer—she called, and I didn’t—fuck.”

The guilt hit like a punch to the chest.

Two weeks early.

Was it the crash?

The stress?

She was watching. She always watched. She was on the comms today too, wasn’t she?

Did watching him get taken out—watching the car spin, the team panic—did that trigger something?

Did he do this?

His throat felt raw. “Is she in pain? Is she scared?”

“I don’t know. All she did was tell me to come and get you,” Zak said quietly. “That’s all. But if we don’t move now—”

Lando didn’t wait.

He ran.

Helmet abandoned. Suit unzipped. Gloves forgotten.

Sprinting down the paddock like the lights had gone green again and everything was on the line.

He nearly collided with Oscar, fresh from the podium, champagne still drying on his suit.

“Lando?” Oscar said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Amelia’s in labour.”

Oscar’s eyes went wide. “Wait—now?”

“Yes, now!” Lando barked, eyes wild. “And I missed her call. I missed it. I’m not there, and she needs me—fuck—”

Behind them: rapid footsteps. Heavy breathing.

“What the fuck is going on?” Max, fresh from media, damp curls plastered to his forehead. Still in his suit. Still furious—until he saw Lando’s face.

“Amelia’s in labour,” Oscar said, breathless.

Max went still. “Shit.”

“She’s on her way to the hospital,” Lando said, voice cracking. “And I’m not there. I didn’t answer—I was so fucking angry, and I didn’t check, and she—” He clenched his fists. “What if it was the race? What if we stressed her out so much that it happened early? What if I fucked this up too?”

“Hey—no,” Oscar said quickly, stepping forward. “No, mate.”

Max grabbed his arm. “Fuck the race. I don’t give a shit. We need to go.”

“You just crashed into me,” Lando snapped. “Why are you even talking to me?”

Max didn’t even blink. “Because she’s my family, mate.”

There was a beat of silence. Lando swallowed.

“My jet’s at the airfield,” Max added. “Fastest way to England. No bullshit. Let’s go.”

Zak jogged up behind them, car keys in hand. “You can bring the whole damn grid for all I care. But we leave now if you want to make it in time.”

Lando’s lungs hurt. His heart was racing.

Oscar beside him. Max right behind. Zak in front.

Don’t let me miss her, he thought, over and over. Please. Please don’t let me miss her.

—

The receptionist barely looked up before buzzing the doors open.

Lando didn’t wait. He shoved through them, sprinting.

His shoes squeaked against polished linoleum.

His heart was hammering. His brain was a mess of white noise and guilt and prayer.

He was too late. He was too late.

He should’ve answered the phone.

Should’ve known.

Should’ve been there.

The midwife at the station looked up just as he rounded the corner.

“Norris?” She asked knowingly.

He nearly collapsed with relief. “Yes. I’m—yes. I’m Lando. My wife—Amelia—”

“She’s okay,” the midwife said quickly, already standing. “Room 307. I’ll take you.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving.

The lights were too bright. The walls too white. His skin itched with leftover adrenaline and travel-sweat. He still wore his fireproofs under his hoodie, and he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin.

You weren’t here.

He turned a corner.

She needed you.

He reached the door.

And stopped.

He could hear her.

Not words—just breath. Short, shallow, uneven. The sound of someone trying not to panic.

He opened the door.

Amelia was there. On the bed.

Half propped up on pillows, her hospital gown pulled tight over her belly. Her hands fisted in the thin blanket. Her face flushed with pain.

A yellow golf-ball in her lap.

Her head snapped up when she saw him.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything.

“You took so long,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

Lando crossed the room in three steps, already shaking. “I know. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t check my phone—I was—I was pissed off with how my race ended and I didn’t think and I should’ve known—fuck—” He dropped to his knees beside her, pressed his forehead to her arm. “I thought I’d be too late,” he said into her skin.

Amelia reached out—tangled her fingers in his hair—and tugged, sharp. “Stop,” she said, voice hoarse. “None of that.”

His eyes were already red. His cheeks wet. He didn’t know when he’d started crying.

She looked exhausted. Pale under the flush. But she was here. And so was he. Finally.

“You didn't miss it,” she said. “She waited for you.”

“Of course she did,” he whispered. And then he kissed her. “And you. You’re the strongest fucking woman in the world. You know that?”

She exhaled a laugh. “I’m also five centimetres dilated and out of patience, so if you want to be helpful—please hand me that cup of ice.”

He did. With shaking hands.

“My mom braided my hair,” she added after a moment, voice softer now. “You missed that part.”

“I’m not going to miss anything else,” he promised.

He kissed her forehead. Her temple. Her knuckles. Gave her mom a small smile.

Tracey was sat in the corner, near the window, working on a knitting project. They looked like tiny booties from what he could see.

He’d hug her later. Thank her a million times just for being there — even though he knew she wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world rather than at Amelia’s beck and call.

“I ran through the paddock,” he murmured. “Max and Oscar came too. We took Max’s jet. Your dad nearly had a coronary at the airport.”

Her eyes softened. “They came?”

“Yeah.” He brushed her damp hair back. “They’re all downstairs. Waiting. Your dad wasn’t sure you’d want him here, didn’t want to overwhelm you. They’re freaking out. Because they love you.”

“I want them to come and say hi after,” she said. Her face twisted with discomfort. “But— I just it want it to be you and my mom, okay? Until she’s here.”

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want.” His fingers slid over hers. “I— I need to call my parents.”

“I already took care of that, honey. They’re on their way.” Tracey said.

Lando exhaled with relief.

Then he leaned in and kissed his wife and said, “You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.”

—

It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There was a cry.

And then hands, gentle, practised, passing something small and slippery and impossibly alive onto Amelia’s chest.

“Here she is, Amelia,” Fiona said softly. “You did it. She’s here. Healthy and pink.”

Amelia couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t think.

Because everything in her brain was screaming: “this isn’t real.”

This wasn’t how she’d rehearsed it in her head. In her spreadsheets. In the checklist she’d kept taped to the fridge.

This wasn’t theoretical.

This wasn’t a due date or a biometric scan or the size of a cantaloupe at 38 weeks.

This was weight. Heat. Movement.

A baby. Her baby.

On her. In her arms.

Not inside anymore.

The disconnect hit her like a crash.

Amelia flinched; only slightly, but enough that Fiona paused, watching.

And so did Lando. And her mom.

Her breathing had gone shallow again. She was blinking fast, trying to recalibrate.

The baby; the baby, the baby — it wasn’t a concept.

It was a person. With skin and breath and a heart that was beating fast.

A heart that had come from her.

Amelia’s whole body trembled. Not from pain, but from the sheer impossibility of it all.

Ada.

Her name had been a theory. A hope.

Now it was a face. A body. Tiny hands.

But faces were hard. Faces moved. Eyes blinked. Skin flushed. Tiny limbs twitched.

And she was touching her. Skin to skin. The warmth was overwhelming.

Every sensory processor in Amelia’s brain screamed. She wanted to dissapear. She wanted to cry. She wanted to understand — and she didn’t.

“You’re okay, baby,” Lando whispered from beside her, voice cracked and reverent. “Just let yourself have a few minutes. Just… just look at her.”

Amelia’s hands hovered uselessly in the air, a few inches away from Ada’s damp, curled back. She couldn’t bring herself to touch.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, voice paper-thin. “I don’t—I don’t know her.”

Fiona gently nudged Ada higher. “She knows you. Smell, heartbeat, voice. She knows you, Amelia.”

But that made it worse.

Because Amelia was so full of love she couldn’t speak — but she was also full of fear, static, disorientation. Her brain was desperately trying to map a new universe with no manual.

Lando leaned in. Rested his forehead to hers. One hand on Ada’s back. One over Amelia’s hand, still hovering.

“You’re doing it,” he said softly. “You’re already doing it.”

Ada made a small sound — nothing loud, just a hum. A nuzzle. A twitch of her mouth.

And Amelia finally, finally, laid both hands over her daughter’s back. Just fingertips.

Ada shifted, rooting instinctively.

“She’s a hungry girl,” Fiona said, voice warm and gentle. “Would you like some help?”

Amelia nodded, but her eyes stayed locked on Ada — this tiny, impossible thing who had been an abstract dream for nine months and now weighed heavy and warm on her chest.

She guided her with Fiona's aid, shaking slightly; and Ada latched like she’d done it in a past life.

“Look at that,” Fiona whispered. “First try.”

Lando made a choked sound. “Daddy’s girl.”

Amelia didn’t even look at him. She reached blindly, grabbed the empty bedpan from the table beside the bed, and whipped it in his direction.

It bounced harmlessly off his leg. He laughed.

“I deserved that,” he murmured.

Amelia still didn’t look away from Ada.

Her fingers, once frozen, were now stroking her daughter’s back. Tentative. Learning.

“I don’t understand how she’s real,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Lando said, voice barely a breath. “You’ve got a lifetime to learn her.”

Amelia’s throat closed. A single tear slid down her cheek, hot and sharp.

Ada suckled rhythmically, peacefully. Her skin flushed. Her impossibly tiny hands curled into fists.

And Amelia fell in love.

—

The room was quiet.

Tracey had slipped out to tell the world that Ada Rossella Norris had arrived safely. That Amelia was okay.

In the soft lamplight and afterbirth hush, everything stood still.

Lando sat half-on the bed, one arm wrapped around Amelia’s shoulders, the other curled around her waist.

Ada lay nestled between them, tiny cheek resting against her mother’s chest, her breath a faint whisper of warmth.

Amelia hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not since the first latch. Not since the bedpan throw.

She was staring down at Ada like she couldn’t possibly look away. Like if she blinked, this would all turn out to have been a dream.

Her fingers moved slowly—carefully. Memorising. Mapping. A tactile inventory.

“She has your nose,” Amelia murmured, her voice cracked and reverent. “But flatter. Less of the Norris ski slope.”

Lando huffed a laugh against her temple. “I don’t have a ski slope.”

“You do,” she said, brushing a finger over the curve of Ada’s. “But it’s endearing. Especially in winter photos.”

She stroked over Ada’s tiny forehead. “And my pouty lips. Poor thing.”

“Baby.”

“It’s okay. She’ll grow into them.” Amelia paused, then added, “Her ears are yours. Exactly. Same tilt. Same soft cartilage. She’s going to hate them in school and love them by the time she’s an adult.”

Lando’s grip on her tightened, just slightly. “She’s perfect.”

“I know.” Amelia’s voice cracked. “She’s so real.”

Ada squirmed softly, stretching a hand, and Amelia caught it — thumb gently placed against tiny fingers.

“She has fingernails,” she whispered, as though it shocked her. “Actual fingernails.”

Lando kissed her hair. “Yeah. She’s a whole person.”

Amelia was quiet again, but only for a second. And then, still not looking up, she began to speak.

“Ada,” she said, voice low and even, like she was introducing the baby to the room, to her own existence. “You were born on a Sunday. In a maternity ward in Northamptonshire. At 38 weeks and three days. You came early because you are, apparently, impatient. Or maybe just a bit dramatic. Your dad swears it had nothing to do with the fact that he and Max crashed and stressed your mummy out. I’m not convinced.”

Lando groaned softly, head tilted back against the wall. “Don’t blame her dramatic entrance on my DNF.”

“I’m just saying,” Amelia murmured, brushing Ada’s cheek, “the timing is suspicious.”

Ada twitched, shifting closer into her chest.

“Well, then, let’s see. You’re part British, part Belgium, part American, but I’m not sure you’ll be jumping to claim that last one. You have a Formula One driver for a daddy. And an engineer for a mummy.”

Lando chuckled. His hand came up to rest over hers, both of them cupping their daughter together.

“You’ll grow up in paddocks. You’ll learn to walk in motorhomes. Your first sunscreen will be whatever your mummy can find in the team stash. Everyone’s going to spoil you rotten. Oscar, well, that’s your Uncle Ducky — he’s already bought you this sweet little onesie with a hundred tiny little cartoon ducks on it. And Max, Verstappen, well, that’ll be your uncle too. I don’t have a brother, but he’s the nearest thing.” She whispered. “But you’ll have another Uncle Max too, and that might get a bit confusing for you, but we’ll be patient.”

Amelia leaned her head on Lando’s shoulder. Her voice dipped lower, like she was confiding a secret to Ada, or maybe to herself.

“You’ll be so loved,” she said. “So much. By people who’ve waited their whole lives to meet you. By a daddy who would cross the continent in race boots to get to you in time. By me, even when I’m tired and anxious and unsure of how to be your a mummy and a person at the same time.”

She sniffed hard, blinking fast again. “You’ve been born into a world that’s chaotic and messy and fast and loud—but it’s ours. And we’re going to make sure it’s yours, too.”

Ada breathed. Soft and slow. Eyes still closed. Tiny fist curled against her cheek.

Lando rested his chin on top of Amelia’s head.

—

Dim afternoon light pooled in soft gold across the linoleum floor, filtered through thick hospital curtains. Machines beeped softly in the background, steady and forgettable.

Amelia was sleeping.

Not deeply — her body too raw, her brain too wired — but enough to rest. Enough for her face to soften, for her lashes to flutter, for her breath to even out against the pillow.

Lando hadn’t taken his eyes off her for hours.

But now — just for a moment — he was pacing near the window, his arms full of something precious.

Ada.

Swaddled and warm and impossibly small in his hoodie-covered forearms, her tiny head nestled into the crook of his elbow, mouth parted, breaths soft. She smelled like hospital linen and baby powder. Like nothing and everything.

Lando couldn’t stop looking at her.

He kept glancing back to Amelia, as if to make sure she was still there — still breathing, still safe, still his. And then back down to Ada again, like he couldn’t quite believe she’d made it out of someone so extraordinary.

“You know,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, “I really thought I’d miss it.”

He swallowed. Looked down at the little bundle blinking slowly up at him — unfocused, unaware, content.

“I was so fucking angry. You wouldn’t believe it. Max and I — well, you’ll hear those stories when you’re older. But I was in the garage, ready to murder someone, and I missed three calls.”

He shifted Ada gently in his arms, pacing another slow length of the room.

“And then your grandpa Zak came in and told me your mum was in labour and I…” He laughed under his breath. It cracked in the middle. “I think my heart actually stopped.”

Ada scrunched her nose, then relaxed again.

“I thought you might be born without me there. And I would never have forgiven myself.”

His voice dropped to a hush, as though even the words themselves were too loud.

“And knowing that your mummy was in pain, and overwhelmed, and everything would be moving too fast and she needed me — and I wasn’t there.”

Lando exhaled, slow and ragged.

“But she waited. You waited. And now you’re here.”

Ada shifted slightly, a little sigh escaping her lips like the smallest secret in the world.

Lando smiled, tears pricking at his lashes again. He bounced her gently, rocking her as he gazed out the window, the hospital grounds bathed in quiet light.

“I don’t know if I’m going to get this right,” he admitted, voice barely audible now. “Being your dad. Being your mummy’s husband. Balancing all of it. But I swear to you, Ada—” He glanced down again, kissed the side of her velvet-soft head. “I swear I will love you so much that even on the days I get it wrong, you’ll never doubt that part.”

Behind him, Amelia stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Lando turned, adjusting Ada one-handed so he could settle into the armchair beside the bed, still cradling her close.

She was falling asleep again.

He watched her eyelids flutter.

“Everyone’s going to want to meet you soon. Oscar and Max and your grandpa Zak. My mum and dad are coming too, and they’re your other grandparents. Nanny Cisca and Grampy Adam. You’ve got a whole army of people who love you already.”

Ada didn’t respond, of course. But Lando smiled anyway.

—

There was a soft knock.

Amelia stirred at the sound, her eyes fluttering open.

Lando was beside her, Ada nestled in his arms, both of them silhouetted against the low amber light from the window. He turned toward the door at the knock, but didn’t speak.

Tracey peeked her head in first. “They’re climbing the walls out here. You ready for visitors?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away — just nodded, slow and small.

The door opened.

Her dad entered first, still in team gear, face flushed and drawn with tension that hadn’t quite released. Max followed close behind, jaw set, eyes scanning every inch of the room. Then Oscar, quietest of all, hovering in the doorway, his hands clenched around the hem of his t-shirt.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Zak exhaled sharply — a sound that came out almost like a sob — and crossed the room in four long strides.

“She’s here,” Lando said, voice thick with emotion.

He was smiling — tired, tearstained, messy-haired, beaming. His hoodie had been peeled back at the chest, skin-to-skin with Ada, whose sleepy face peeked just above the blanket.

Zak made it to them first. He didn’t ask permission — just leaned in, reverent, pressing one palm gently to Ada’s impossibly small back.

“Wow,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”

His voice cracked.

“She’s healthy,” Lando said. “They both are.”

Max stood frozen for a beat, as if unsure if he was allowed to move — then his whole body softened, and he stepped forward, too. No jokes, no bravado.

He leaned down and kissed the top of Lando’s curls — and just like that, the tension of the day, of the collision and the angry team-radios, were forgotten.

Then, he looked at Ada.

“Dag meisje,” he murmured, voice low and Dutch-soft. Little girl. “What a beautiful girl you are.”

Amelia blinked over at them; Lando, crying silently, Zak with both hands now cradling the baby’s tiny back, Max brushing a finger over her little cap of dark hair.

But Oscar hadn’t moved.

He stood just inside the door, eyes locked on Amelia. Not the baby. Not Lando. Just her.

She gave him a nod.

And in an instant, Oscar crossed the room. No words — not yet — just a deep, shaking breath as he dropped to his knees beside her bed and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

He was warm and real and trembling just slightly.

“I thought—” he choked on the words. “I didn’t know if you—”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

Oscar nodded into her shoulder.

“Sorry I made you worry.” She told him.

“It’s fine,” he said hoarsely, voice muffled. “Did you see my podium?”

Amelia let out a breathy laugh and nodded. Then she reached for his hand and squeezed.

Behind them, Max was now peppering Lando with questions — rapid-fire Dutch, mostly — about the birth, the midwife, whether Ada had opened her eyes yet.

Zak hadn’t stopped touching Ada, like if he let go, she might disappear.

Oscar still hadn’t looked at the baby.

“Can I see her?” He asked Amelia softly.

Amelia gave another nod. “Yeah, ducky. Of course you can.”

Oscar stood, eyes wide, cautious like she was made of glass; but when Lando held Ada out to him, he took her without hesitation.

She fit perfectly into his arms.

“Hi,” he breathed, eyes going impossibly soft. “Hello, baby Ada. You look just like your mummy.”

Amelia lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Her dad come and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Max kissed both of her cheeks and told her that she looked beautiful.

And then Ada was back in her arms, all scrunchy nosed and wet-eyed, and the world narrowed down to her.

—

The house was too quiet.

Which was absurd, given they were no longer alone.

But that was exactly the problem.

The silence left too much room for Amelia’s thoughts.

She stood in the nursery, arms crossed tightly over her chest. In a baggy tee and oversized cotton pyjama pants, hair still braided but frizzed at the edges.

She hadn’t let go of Ada in hours — not really.

Even now, with Ada asleep in the crib just a few feet away, Amelia felt like she hadn’t let her go.

Lando stood a few paces behind, leaning against the doorframe in his joggers and a white t-shirt, barefoot and watching her with soft eyes.

“We don’t have to leave her,” he said gently. “Not even for a second. There’s a basket in our room for a reason, baby.”

Amelia didn’t answer.

She rubbed one hand up and down her arm, fast, rhythmic. A stim. Comfort.

“She’s just so small,” she said eventually. “And she was inside me and now she’s not, and my brain hasn’t — hasn’t caught up to the idea that she’s real and separate and still… fine.”

Lando stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching a scared animal. Not because he thought she’d snap, but because she was stretched thin and too full and too raw, and he knew better than to rush her.

“I know,” he said. “It’s weird, right? How quiet she is? How not imaginary?”

Amelia exhaled sharply, a little laugh catching in her throat. “I keep expecting someone to come take her away. Like — like we’re just the transport team.”

Lando reached out, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. “They handed her to us, remember? In the hospital. And no one looked worried. Not a single nurse said ‘actually, we’ve changed our minds’.”

“I don’t feel qualified.”

“You grew her.”

“I did,” she whispered, blinking hard. “And now I’m supposed to… put her in a crib and go to bed like she’s not still part of me?”

“You don’t have to,” he said again. “We can pull the moses basket all the way next to your side of the bed. You can have your hand in there with her, baby, if that’s what you need to do. And we got those little toe clips, didn’t we? To make sure she’s still breathing. I’ll set up the white noise machine. I can hold her while you shower. Or while you lie down. Whatever feels okay.”

She stared at him.

“I don’t want to close my eyes,” she admitted. “I don’t want to stop looking at her.”

“We can take turns.”

“But you need to sleep.”

“I’ll nap tomorrow.”

“Lando.”

“Amelia.”

She cracked a smile then — barely, but real.

And he took her hand, warm and grounding. “Come lie down. Just lie down. I’ll keep one hand on her and one on you. I’ll be right there.”

Amelia hesitated.

Then nodded.

She let him guide her back to their bedroom. Lando had already rearranged everything — bassinet beside the bed, a lamp dimmed low, muslins folded with surgical precision. He lifted Ada gently from the crib and laid her into the basket with infinite care.

Then he slid into bed, propped up by pillows, and held out his arms.

Amelia didn’t need to be told twice.

She curled into his side, one hand reaching instinctively toward Ada’s sleeping form, her fingers resting just beside the basket.

No blankets. No teddies. No safety hazards.

Just a perfectly swaddled baby in a white onesie, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm Amelia was already memorising. A monitor was clipped gently to one of her toes — nothing intrusive, just a soft band — but if anything changed, even slightly, it would ping Lando’s phone in an instant.

“I’m going to check on her every ten minutes,” Amelia mumbled, eyes already heavy but refusing to close.

Lando kissed her hair. “That’s okay. I probably will too.”

She nodded once, almost automatically, and settled deeper against him — but her fingers didn’t move from the edge of the basket. Her mind was moving too fast to follow, darting down rabbit holes.

“Did you ever get nightmares as a child?” She asked suddenly, her voice a little hoarse.

Lando blinked. “Um. Yeah. A few. Why?”

“I read somewhere they can run in families. It’s neurological. Patterns of sleep. And I just… I want to be prepared.”

He didn’t say 'You don’t have to worry about that right now.'

He didn’t say 'Let it go.'

He knew better.

So he said, “Only when I was overtired. I’d sleepwalk too, sometimes. My mum said I used to go looking for my kart in the middle of the night.”

That made her smile a little — soft and crooked. “Of course you did.”

He chuckled under his breath. “What else do you want to know?”

“Did you have a favourite toy?”

“Plastic steering wheel. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. It had a red horn button. I’d sit on the living room rug and pretend I was racing.”

“Were you scared of the dark?”

Lando glanced down at her, at the way her brow was pinched just slightly.

The questions weren’t idle.

They were a defence. A rhythm.

A way to keep the storm in her head at bay.

“I hated the dark,” he said simply. “I used to leave the bathroom light on; on purpose. It used to drive my dad mad, but I didn’t want to admit that it was because the dark hallway scared me.”

She was quiet for a moment, her hand still resting near the basket.

“I need to hold her,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t wobble, but her lip did. “Just for a minute. Just to make sure she’s… she’s okay.”

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “She’s yours, baby,” he murmured. “Ours. We can hold her whenever we want.”

So he got up and placed Ada gently in her mother’s arms, careful not to wake her.

Amelia’s breath hitched as she pulled their daughter close, cupping the back of her tiny head, pressing her lips to soft baby hair and inhaling like she was trying to fuse them back together.

And Lando just watched.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, eyes still locked on Ada.

“I know.”

“But I love her so much I can’t even — there’s no room left in me for anything else, Lando.”

He brushed her curls back from her forehead. “I know. Baby, I know.”

She smiled at him wetly. “Thank you for giving me her.”

He kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle.

—

By day three, the house had softened.

They’d settled into a new kind of rhythm. One shaped around feeds and burps and naps so short they barely even counted. The clock meant nothing anymore. Light filtered in and out of the windows. Lando had stopped checking the date. Amelia had stopped pretending not to be terrified by every sound Ada made.

But the bleeding had slowed. The cramps had faded. The adult diapers were gone — finally, thank God — and Amelia was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants as she sat cross-legged on the couch with Ada against her chest.

The baby nursed noisily, fingers flexing near her mother’s collarbone, head resting in the crook of Amelia’s arm.

In her free hand, Amelia held her iPad — an older engineering article open, written by Adrian, full of dense paragraphs and complex diagrams about brake duct airflow and thermal optimisation. She read it aloud like a lullaby, her voice soft but steady.

“‘By increasing the front duct’s diameter by 2.3 millimetres, the delta in peak rotor temp dropped below critical thresholds in high-deg circuits, including Catalunya and Marina Bay…’ You hear that, Ada? Heat efficiency. That’s how we stay fast and safe.”

Ada made a small noise — halfway between a sigh and a snuffle — and latched more firmly.

Lando passed through the room with a laundry basket in his arms. His curls were still wet from a rushed shower, and he wore mismatched socks. But he smiled when he saw them.

“She asleep yet?” He asked, pausing.

“Almost.” Amelia didn’t look up from her screen. “We’re learning about regenerative braking.”

“Alright, baby,” Lando said, and disappeared toward the washing machine.

The doorbell rang just as Amelia was settling Ada into the bassinet. Ada didn’t flinch, but Amelia suddenly startled and stared at her little sleeping form with a frown.

Was she too cold? Was her neck at the wrong angle? Had she been burped properly—

“It’s okay,” Lando said, his voice low. “She’s fine. I’ll get the door. You stay and watch her.”

She nodded, stepping back, watching the rise and fall of her daughter’s chest like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

And then: voices. Familiar ones.

Max (Fewtrell) and Pietra. Their laughter was gentle, not loud — filtered with care.

“Hey,” Max said, stepping into the living room with a Tupperware box already in hand. “We’ve both antibacced our hands. We come in peace.”

Pietra went straight to Amelia, arms already open. She didn’t say anything, just wrapped her up in a firm hug — grounding, real, warm — and kissed the side of her head.

“You have done so well,” she whispered.

Amelia didn’t cry, but her throat caught. “Thanks. She’s… she’s perfect. I’m just tired.”

“We know.”

Meanwhile, Max clapped Lando on the shoulder, hard. “Mate. You look like you’ve seen things.”

“I’ve seen things,” Lando muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Go sit down. We’ve got this.”

They didn’t ask to hold Ada. Didn’t hover or coo or crowd. Pietra pulled on rubber gloves and started wiping down the kitchen counters like it was the most natural thing in the world. Max took out the bins. Then he came back in and started unloading the dishwasher without asking where anything went.

Amelia watched all of it from the couch, stunned by how quickly the air changed — less pressure, more breathing room.

“You don’t need to do all that,” she murmured.

“We want to,” Pietra said, straightening up with a dish towel in her hand. “This is the bit no one helps with, and it’s the bit that matters.”

Lando appeared beside Amelia, dropping onto the couch, sliding a hand over her knee. She leaned into him automatically.

“Tell them thank you,” she whispered, eyes half-shut.

He did. She already knew he would.

And for the first time since Ada’s birth, Amelia let herself fully exhale. Not just a breath. A letting-go. Just a moment.

The baby was sleeping.

The house was quiet.

And they were not alone.

—

They took Ada out for her first proper walk on a Tuesday.

The sky was low and soft, pale blue smudged with thin clouds. Not warm, not cold. Just… fresh. There was the smell of cut grass in the air and the quiet hum of summer insects returning to their business.

The pram rolled smoothly along the country trail, thick tyres handling the uneven gravel without so much as a jolt. Lando had triple-checked the suspension before they left the house.

Now he hovered two steps behind Amelia, a muslin cloth draped over one shoulder, spare dummy in his hoodie pocket, checking the pram’s hood every three seconds like the sun might have suddenly grown sharper.

“Do you think it’s too bright?” He asked, squinting up. “Should we have brought the other hat?”

Amelia didn’t break stride. “She’s fine.”

“What if she gets cold?”

“She’s in a fleece-lined sleep suit and the foot muff, Lando. She’s not cold.”

He hesitated. “I just—she’s so little. Doesn’t feel right to have her out here.”

Amelia’s expression softened, but only a little. She didn’t stop walking. “Fresh air is important for newborns. It regulates their circadian rhythm. Improves lung function. Strengthens immune development.”

Lando jogged a step to fall in beside her, peeking into the pram. “I know. I just feel like she should still be wrapped in bubble wrap. Or, I don’t know… a titanium exosuit.”

Amelia side-eyed him. “She’s a human baby.”

“Yeah. But she’s our human baby.”

Amelia finally looked over at him, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, eyes still scanning the trail ahead. “Lando. She’s okay. I promise.”

He huffed, shifting closer to peer into the pram again. “I know. I—I do know. But she’s just… so small.”

“She’s also fast asleep.” Amelia nodded toward the pram. Sure enough, Ada’s tiny features were slack with the soft stillness of newborn sleep, one fist curled near her chin and her lips parted slightly, breath feathering.

Lando smiled, almost reluctantly. “She really is perfect.”

Amelia slowed a little, letting the rhythm of her footsteps match the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Her hand brushed against his, and when he didn’t pull away, she laced their fingers together.

“She’ll be okay,” she said, softer now. “I’m going to be good at this part. The structure. The systems. The planning. Schedules. Routines.”

“You’ve been good at all of it,” Lando said without hesitation.

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not all of it.”

“Name one thing you’ve been bad at so far,” he challenged, raising a brow.

“Holding her while she cries,” she replied instantly, too fast and too honest. “I never know how to help. I just freeze.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t count. You can just wear your ear defenders.”

“I think they scare her,” she admitted, glancing away. “She cries harder when I put them on.”

Lando nudged her shoulder gently. “Nah. She’ll get used to them. Babies cry. That’s literally their job.”

She gave a quiet laugh, tugged closer by his steadiness. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They walked in silence for a minute, the trees rustling softly around them, the path dappled in filtered light.

“You want me to push her for a bit?” He asked.

She nodded and handed over the pram with a small sigh of relief, flexing her fingers. “My arms were starting to ache, and I don’t even know why. I wasn’t carrying her.”

“It’s the new mum muscle fatigue,” he said knowingly. “Totally scientific.”

She snorted, then went quiet for a beat. “I’m so glad I’m not, like, constantly peeing myself anymore. That was weird.”

Lando nodded. “Honestly, I think you handled it really well.”

She gave him a side-glance, almost shy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached out and squeezed her hand again. “I was expecting way more tears. And not from Ada.”

“There were tears. I just cried in the shower.”

He smiled, but it was soft and genuine. “I know.”

Amelia exhaled, some of the tension rolling off her shoulders. The walk, the fresh air, the steady feel of his hand wrapped around hers — it all helped. Ada stirred once in her sleep, a tiny sound escaping her lips, and they both stopped walking for a second, listening.

Still asleep.

They exchanged a glance — equal parts relief and awe — and kept walking.

—

Later that evening, their house glowed with the golden warmth of soft lighting, the scent of something mildly burnt wafting from the oven (Lando insisted it was “crispy” on purpose). The table was already set — half by Lando, half by Cisca, who had taken it upon herself to silently reorganise the cutlery the moment she walked in.

Dinner was simple. Pasta. Store-bought garlic bread. A pre-made chocolate tart that Adam had brought with a proud grin and a whispered, “Don’t let Lando see the packaging — he’ll think his mother spent hours making this.”

Ada had just gone down in her bassinet upstairs.

Amelia hovered in the hallway, half listening, half pacing, fingers twitching at her sleeves. She’d made it through dinner prep, through greeting Lando’s parents and making small talk, but her ears were tuned in a thousand different directions — to the baby monitor, to the creak of the upstairs floorboards, to the faintest imagined cry in the silence.

“She’s okay,” Lando said gently, coming to stand beside her. “She’s asleep.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Amelia said, clutching her elbows. “Or she was and now she’s not. Or she will be and then she won’t be, and then they’ll all want to hold her and I’ll have to say no because she’s finally down and they’ll think I’m rude—”

“Okay,” Lando said, calm and sure and already moving past her.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Getting her.”

“Lando—”

But he was already climbing the stairs. Moments later, he reappeared with Ada bundled in her swaddle inside her moses basket, blinking in that newborn stunned way, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He paused only to press a kiss to the top of Amelia’s head before disappearing into the kitchen.

Amelia followed him, heart caught somewhere between panic and confusion — until she saw what he’d done.

He’d cleared the centrepiece from the kitchen table. Moved the salt and pepper. And right in the middle, like the guest of honour, was Ada. Swaddled and content, her moses basket taking pride of place between the lasagna and the chocolate tart.

Everyone paused.

Then started to laugh.

“Lando,” Cisca laughed. “You did not just put the baby on the table.”

“We can keep an eye on her,” he shrugged, completely deadpan.

Even Amelia, still frazzled, couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. Her shoulders dropped. Her heart settled.

“Okay,” she said softly, moving closer and brushing her fingers across Ada’s cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But she’s calm. And you’re calm too. So I win.”

The rest of dinner was easy. Light. Ada stayed asleep, safe in the middle of it all. Lando’s parents only peeked at her — no passing her around, no unsolicited advice. Just gentle smiles and hands folded in laps and the occasional, “She’s so beautiful.”

Amelia stared at her daughter as she ate her lasagna.

And there would be photos passed around in fifteen years time. Of a baby in the middle of the dinner table, in different outfits during different times of the year. Easter and Christmas and Birthdays. Newborn and then not.

Ada Rossella Norris, fifteen years old, will blush and squeak and say, “Mum, that’s so weird! Why was I on the table?”

And Amelia will swipe her hand across her daughter’s freckled cheek and say, “Where else would you be?”

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the couch, one of her old engineering textbooks open in her lap. It was more comfort object than useful now — dense equations and fluid mechanics — but it gave her something to hold, something to do.

From down the hall, the sound of water running filled the quiet.

She turned a page absently. Then another.

Then paused, head tilting slightly.

Lando’s voice drifted out from the bathroom. Soft. Muffled. A kind of singsong narration.

“There’s your little foot… and here’s your other one… look at those perfect toes, Ada-bug…”

Just her husband. Bathing their daughter.

Amelia closed the book, the spine pressing into her palm.

She didn’t need to go check. Didn’t need to see with her own eyes to know he was being gentle, and cautious, and silly, and Lando.

And the realisation landed with no fanfare, no dramatic swell of emotion — just a quiet, settled truth.

She trusted him.

Completely.

With the most precious thing in the entire world.

She tucked the book beside her and got up slowly, padding barefoot to the doorway of the bathroom, where Lando knelt beside the little tub, sleeves rolled up, Ada’s soft, soapy body cradled between his careful hands.

He looked up and grinned when he saw her.

“Hey,” he whispered. “She loves the water.”

Amelia leaned against the doorframe, her eyes soft.

“I like it too,” she said. “And I like you. Like this.”

He flushed a little, smiled wider. “Yeah?”

She nodded.

Ada squealed and splashed her fists in the water.

Amelia smiled at her little girl.

—

The paddock was quieter than it would be on race day — a lull before the storm.

Just the low hum of cameras, the occasional mechanical clatter of a forklift, and the shuffle of early-arriving team personnel cutting through the cool morning air. But even that — the muted version of Silverstone — pressed in around Amelia like static behind her eyes.

Too many overlapping sounds.

Too much motion at the edges of her vision, flickering like faulty headlights.

Ada shifted against her chest with a soft grunt, the wrap keeping her snug and swaddled, the rhythm of Amelia’s heartbeat her steady metronome. One of Amelia’s hands stayed curled protectively around the baby’s back, her thumb tracing a repetitive pattern she didn’t consciously register. A grounding mechanism. Something to keep her tethered.

Her dad met them at the back entrance of the McLaren motorhome, face gentle, voice pitched low like he was afraid to set something off.

“Hello, my beautiful baby girls,” he said, already holding the door open. “We’ve cleared the top floor. Everyone knows to stay out. You’ve got total privacy.”

Amelia gave a small nod. Didn’t speak.

Her whole focus was on getting inside — away from the press of noise, the open sky, the potential germs and the unknowns.

Lando was already there.

The moment she stepped through the doorway, he turned as if pulled by a thread. His whole expression shifted — softened in an instant — as his eyes landed on them. His daughter, safe and warm. His wife, upright and moving, even if she looked like she was carrying the weight of the world and then some.

“You made it,” he breathed.

“I said I would,” Amelia murmured. “I made a plan.”

And the plan was always the comfort.

He didn’t crowd her, just hovered at her side as she allowed herself to be guided up the narrow staircase to the engineer’s meeting room. It had been transformed — not sterile, not chaotic. Just… still.

The blinds were drawn. The harsh fluorescents replaced with soft lamp lighting. A white noise machine hummed gently in the corner, masking the distant clatter of wheel guns and rolling crates. Someone had set up a chair by the window, a footstool just beneath it, a bottle of water and sanitiser waiting on a little table nearby. She didn’t know who had prepared it. Probably more than one person. That thought, strangely, comforted her.

Amelia sank into the chair and exhaled for what felt like the first time all morning.

Lando crouched beside her, fingers light on the edge of the wrap. He didn’t try to take Ada. Just looked at her like he was memorising the details — her milk-drunk mouth, the dusky pink of her cheeks, the faintest tuft of dark hair under her little hat.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered. “Welcome to Silverstone. A week old and you’re already in the paddock. You know how crazy that is?”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her shoulders loosened slightly.

“We’re only staying for an hour. Maybe less. I just want to go over the strategy notes with Tom. I’ve already emailed them, but—”

“You want to go over them in person,” Lando finished. “That’s fine. That’s perfect.”

She adjusted the wrap slightly, fingers brushing Ada’s tiny back. “It’s too soon for her to actually be here for the full weekend. Her immune system, her ears…”

“I know,” Lando said gently. “She’ll be ready soon.” Then, quieter, “Maybe in a kart.”

Amelia’s eyes snapped to his. “Only if she wants to. Only if it’s her idea.”

He lifted a hand. “Of course.”

There was a knock at the door.

Oscar stood just beyond it, holding two coffees and that neutral expression he wore when he didn’t want to spook anyone.

“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking to Amelia. “I can come back later?”

Amelia glanced at him, then at the room, then back to Ada — still sleeping, undisturbed. She gave a small nod.

Oscar stepped in with careful movements, like he knew what it cost her to allow anyone near the baby (because he did). He crouched beside the chair, not quite close enough to breach her space.

“She’s here,” he said quietly.

“Amazing, innit,” Lando murmured, standing up to take one of the coffees from him.

Oscar didn’t take his eyes off Ada. “You’re a machine,” he told Amelia. “For coming here. Thank you.”

“She slept the whole car ride,” Amelia said. “I packed enough supplies for three days rather than three hours.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You think that’ll be enough?”

“It's fine. My dad’s probably stashed nappies all over this motorhome,” she said dryly. “You can call Zak Brown a lot of things, but you can’t call him unprepared.”

That made both men laugh, the sound low and soft enough not to wake the baby.

Twenty-seven minutes.

That’s how long Amelia stayed.

Long enough for her to sit in on the strategy meeting, long enough to pass off her annotated packet of data to Tom with a few muttered clarifications. Long enough for her to reassure herself that her world hadn’t spun too far off its axis.

She knew it had been twenty-seven minutes because she set a timer on her phone. Not a second longer.

And when they left — quietly, quickly, Lando carrying her bag, Oscar offering to hold the door open — she didn’t look back.

She had a baby girl to focus on.

And Lando would follow her home when he was done.

—

The front door clicked softly shut.

Ada stirred in her basket. Amelia looked up from her book — well, from the same paragraph she’d read six times — just as Lando stepped into the living room, damp curls flattened beneath his McLaren cap and a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Behind him, Oscar hovered with two takeaway bags and a sheepish shrug. “He called me stupid for planning on going to the team hotel,” he said. “I didn’t fight that hard.”

Lando dropped a kiss to her temple as he passed. “She’s been awake?”

“Two feeds,” Amelia said, adjusting the blanket draped over her lap. “Four nappy changes. She’s settled now.”

Oscar was already crouching beside the basket, peering in at Ada like he hadn’t seen her just a few hours ago. “She’s still so small.”

“She’s seven days old,” Amelia pointed out. “She’s supposed to be small.”

“I know. But like… look at her.” He grinned, voice hushed. “She’s smaller than my forearm.”

Amelia blinked.

Lando had taken the food into the kitchen. She could hear the fridge opening, the rustle of takeaway containers. Oscar was now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Ada, humming softly under his breath.

The room felt full. But not crowded.

She marked her place in the book — something about fluid dynamics and downforce — and looked around.

Lando came back in with three bowls of food and no cutlery, because he always forgot the cutlery. He kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the sofa beside her, and pulled her close with a casualness that would’ve stunned her thirteen-year-old self.

Amelia rested her cheek against his shoulder.

She thought about being thirteen. About hiding in the corner of the school library, rereading the same paperbacks while her classmates whispered and passed notes about their crushes.

She’d never understood the obsession. Never wanted the chaos of it.

She’d convinced herself she wasn’t built for any of it — romance, affection, softness. She figured she’d grow up and live alone in a quiet flat with neat shelves and a routine no one could break.

And now she was here. Baby in a basket. Working in the sport she adored. Married. Her best friend sitting on her living room floor, humming to her daughter as she slept.

It made her chest ache, a little. With disbelief. With gratitude.

“Hey,” Lando said softly, glancing down. “You okay, baby?”

She nodded. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable and full at once. “I didn’t think I’d get this.”

Lando’s brows drew together, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want it. I thought I wasn’t… wired that way.” Her voice was even. Gentle. “I have never been so relieved to have been wrong about something.”

He kissed her again, this time on the side of her head. “Love you.”

Oscar, still on the floor, looked up with a half-smile. “Is this a bad time to ask if you’re willing to half your naan bread with me?”

Amelia laughed. Then she tore it in half and gave it to him.

Lando passed her a fork.

She hadn’t even noticed him go get it. But of course he had.

And as Ada shifted softly in her basket, a tiny sigh in the quiet, Amelia thought, ‘This. This is what home is.’

And she hadn’t even known to hope for it.

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ivanttakethis · 23 hours ago

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Do you think Mizi had a higher intimacy rating with Ivan (75%) than with Till (30%) at least in part because of their conversation in the True Face comic?

Like, Ivan is nice to her and they talk and hang out sometimes, which I’m sure is on par with other students, but unlike other male students (sorry to put you in this group Till), he doesn’t “like” Mizi that way.

He doesn’t want anything from her. He doesn’t even want to watch her from a distance like some sort of goddess (so sorry again, Till).

There’s no ulterior motive for him to be friendly to her.

Maybe Mizi could sense that?

She could be friends with Ivan without having to worry about him taking the things she said or did the “wrong way.”

He wouldn’t misinterpret her taking a nap on him or asking for a piggyback ride as something romantic.

She was comfortable around Ivan.

Maybe Mizi even felt like she could trust him? Or at least not have her guard up.

Now that’s not to say that she distrusted Till or thought he would act like the blond guy did, however—

I can see why she would feel less fond of Till versus Ivan.

And the fact that the first thing he said when she asked why he liked her was because she was pretty made things worse.

Till didn’t like Mizi because of her personality.

He liked her because she was pretty.

Shallow. Surface level.

He built up this fantasy of her in his head and that’s what he loved.

Not her.

Just like all of the other boys “circling around her all the time.”

This is my favorite panel in the comic, because it says so much about what Mizi’s thinking without her having to say a word.

The dull look in her eye.

“I see. You’re just like all of the others.”

An invisible string between them is severed.

Mizi is the only one who notices.

This conversation also recontexualizes a lot of other art we’ve seen of Mizi and Till interacting.

She’s not oblivious to his blushing or how he stumbles over his words when talking to her. She knows what it means and is purposefully ignoring all of that because he’s her friend and she wants him to stay that way. Nothing more.

This is the second time Mizi is shown telling Till directly and in no uncertain terms that she likes/loves Sua, and I can imagine the fact that he doesn’t seem to take the hint would make her keep some distance.

It’s her way of protecting herself.

She doesn’t want him to be angry.

Saying no could be dangerous.

The last time she rejected someone it ended in violence.

(Again, not saying Till would do this, but Mizi doesn’t know that for sure.)

She has to be kind and sweet.

She has to let him down gently.

She has to say no in a roundabout way.

She has to tread lightly. Watch her words. Her physical contact. Even how long she looks at a boy so they don’t get the wrong idea.

And if they do, it’s her fault.

Whether or not Mizi knows Ivan is gay doesn’t really matter either.

It’s about the security of knowing you can just be yourself around someone.

It’s about feeling safe.

Safe enough to take a nap, even.

#is this part of my ivanmizi besties agenda? sort of #but really it’s about how much i (and i’m sure others) can relate to how mizi feels about safety and relationships and the male gaze #this is not me lumping till in with that blond guy btw i know he’s not like him but that doesn’t really matter from mizi’s perspective #it’s the concept of it ya know?#alien stage #alnst #alien stage mizi #alnst mizi #alien stage ivan #alnst ivan #alien stage till #alnst till #alien stage friday #alnst friday #alien stage spoilers #alnst spoilers #ivanttakethis talks too much

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fanficgirl429 · 2 days ago

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Bucky Gets Hurt

Pairing: fem!reader x Bucky Barnes

Prompt: Y/N discovers that Bucky got hurt during their last mission and didn't say anything. She becomes upset and he tries his best to calm her down.

Warnings: mention of sex, 18+ only, minors do not engage

----

The room was quiet except for the occasional car horn echoing faintly through the windows of Y/N and Bucky’s apartment. Y/N stood still in the doorway of the bathroom, her eyes fixed on the white bandage wrapped snugly around Bucky’s side. He hadn’t noticed her yet, he was facing the mirror, running a hand through his hair with a wince he tried to hide.

“Are you kidding me right now?” she said sharply.

Bucky jumped, turning toward her with guilt already written all over his face.

“Y/N—”

“You didn’t tell me you were hurt?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning on the doorframe. “When were you going to? Or was I just going to keep thinking you’ve been extra grumpy for no reason?”

“It’s not that bad,” he replied quickly, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

She scoffed. “Oh, so not telling your girlfriend that you got stabbed during a mission is just… casual now?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“That’s not your decision to make, Bucky!”

He let out a long sigh and turned around to face her, his back resting against the counter. “You were already freaked out about the mission. I figured if I told you, you’d—”

“What?” she cut in. “Care too much? Want to help? Want to actually know what the hell is going on with my boyfriend?”

He flinched, his jaw tight.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Is this why you didn’t let me take off your shirt yesterday?” She threw her hands in the air, walking back into the bedroom and began to pace, Bucky following behind her. “Oh my God—Bucky, we had sex in the kitchen, and I thought you were just being rough and dominant and sexy—”

“I was being sexy,” he muttered defensively.

“Don’t even,” she snapped, glaring at him. “You didn’t want me to see the bandage. That’s what that was.”

Bucky looked at her, his face softening. “I didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

She held his gaze for a long, silent beat before turning on her heel and disappearing into the walk-in closet without a word.

Bucky exhaled slowly and retreated back into the bathroom.

When he finally reentered the bedroom, the air was heavy with tension.

Y/N was already lying on the bed, back against the pillows, her legs stretched out. She was wearing his navy blue Henley, and the hem barely covered the tops of her thighs.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You’re wearing that to rile me up,” he said, his blue eyes skimming her body.

“Yup,” Y/N replied, unapologetic and smug, scrolling aimlessly through her phone.

“You’re still mad at me.”

“Also yup.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “Y/N…”

She didn’t look up. “I’m not mad because you got hurt. I’m mad because you didn’t tell me. I’m supposed to be your partner, Buck. You don’t get to shut me out just because you think you’re protecting me.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

She glanced up then, saw the guilt on his face, and the way he hadn’t moved from the doorway yet.

“Get over here,” she said, patting the empty space beside her.

Bucky crossed the room slowly, climbing onto the bed and moving to straddle her legs. He dipped his head and started placing soft kisses up her body, starting at her knees, moving up to her thighs, lingering there just long enough to draw a slow breath from her lips.

“Bucky,” she said warningly as he reached her hips, “I said I’m still mad at you.”

“I know,” he murmured against her stomach, lips brushing her skin. “But you’re wearing my shirt with no pants, and I’m a simple man.”

“Simple man with a stab wound,” she reminded him, pushing at his shoulders. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

He smirked. “This is rest. Very effective. Medically proven.”

She let out a reluctant laugh, trying to swat him away again as he kissed up between her ribs, lifting the shirt inch by inch.

“Bucky...”

“Y/N…,” he mocked softly, looking up at her.

She met his gaze, lips twitching. “This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”

“Understood.”

“Seriously.”

“I’m terrified of your wrath,” he said as he nuzzled the underside of her breast. “Please don’t end me.”

She tried not to melt but failed entirely. “You're such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned before finally kissing her properly, slow and deep, like an apology with every press of his mouth.

His lips then returned to the curve beneath her breast, his breath warm against her skin as he gently nudged up the soft fabric of the Henley she’d very obviously chosen for effect.

Y/N arched an eyebrow. “You know this doesn’t get you off the hook, right?”

“I figured I’d warm you up before your sentencing,” he murmured, his voice a low, playful rasp.

Her hand slid into his hair—partly to keep him close, partly to remind him who was in charge here. “You’re going to have to grovel so hard after this.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said against her sternum before pressing another kiss there. “Groveling. Worship. Whatever you need.”

“Good. Because I’m pissed,” she whispered, her tone softening despite herself. “You got stabbed and hid it from me. What if it got infected? What if it reopened while you were—”

“Throwing you onto the counter and making you scream?” he finished innocently.

She groaned. “Don’t make me regret letting you back on this bed.”

Bucky leaned up on his elbows, eyes meeting hers. “Hey.” His fingers gently brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “I’m sorry. Really. I wasn’t trying to push you out. I just—sometimes I forget I don’t have to deal with things alone anymore. That I don’t want to.”

Y/N studied his face. There was sincerity in his eyes, a vulnerability that cracked through the sarcastic front he usually wore. Her thumb stroked along his jaw.

“I know it’s hard,” she said quietly. “But you don’t get to shut me out when things get messy. Especially when it’s your body. I love you—flaws, scars, stab wounds and all. Don’t make me fight to love you right.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow, and he dipped down to kiss her again—softer this time, slower. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

“I always wear your shirts.”

“But this one,” he said, his hands ghosting over her thighs and under the hem. “This is the shirt you wear when you’re mad and still want to make me suffer.”

Y/N smirked. “What can I say? I multitask.”

He chuckled, pressing another kiss to her jaw, then trailing them down her throat, slow and deliberate. “Tell me what you want.”

She let her head fall back against the pillows with a sigh, placing her phone on the nightstand. “I want you to respect me enough to be honest when you’re hurt. I want you to trust that I can handle it, and that I’d rather know than be in the dark.”

His lips paused at the curve of her neck. “I do. I’m working on it.”

“Good,” she said, then added with a smirk, “because you’re not getting laid until you earn it.”

He looked up with an expression that was all pout and no shame. “You are trying to kill me.”

“You’ll live,” she said, pulling him up for another kiss. “Barely.”

Bucky collapsed beside her dramatically, letting his head fall into the crook of her neck with a groan. “Torture. Pure torture.”

“Not torture,” she murmured, fingers lazily tracing the bandage on his side, “just…consequences.”

He turned his face into her neck. “Worth it.”

She laughed and curled into him, letting the moment settle.

The silence that fell over them was the kind Y/N both loved and hated. Comfortable because it was Bucky. Charged because… it was Bucky. And when he was curled up beside her, all warm muscles and stubborn apologies, it was harder to stay mad.

But she wasn’t done yet.

She shifted slightly, letting her leg drape over his hips, making sure the movement brushed just enough against him to earn a subtle hitch of breath.

“Seriously,” she whispered, fingers skating along the edge of the bandage. “You were just gonna walk around like nothing happened? Let me grind all over you on a granite counter like you weren’t low-key bleeding out?”

Bucky’s chuckle vibrated against her chest. “You weren’t complaining yesterday.”

She poked his shoulder. “I was distracted.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he gave her that classic smirk—the one that made her stomach flutter. “If it helps, I was also incredibly distracted. By your legs. And that ridiculous little noise you made when I bit your—”

She slapped a hand over his mouth. “Bucky.”

His eyes crinkled with laughter behind her hand.

She sighed, moving her hand back to his face and cradling it softly. “I mean it, though. I know you think you’re protecting me, but not telling me when you’re hurt? That’s not love. That’s fear. And I can’t fix what I don’t know about.”

He sobered under her touch, nodding slightly. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“Except for the time you swore you could handle all five shots of tequila.”

“That’s different.”

“You almost punched Sam.”

“He said Die Hard wasn’t a Christmas movie. That’s not a disagreement. That’s war.”

Bucky laughed, and Y/N’s lips curled despite the lingering frustration in her chest. She reached down, tracing the hem of his sweatpants, her fingers brushing his waistband but not doing anything. Just reminding him she could.

He inhaled sharply.

Y/N leaned in, kissed the spot under his ear, and whispered, “Still not getting laid.”

He groaned, dramatically flopping onto his back. “You’re evil.”

“Smart. Sexy. Reasonably furious.” She curled up next to him and laid her head on his chest carefully, avoiding the wound. “And yours. Which is why you have to tell me this stuff, Buck. You’re not alone anymore. And if I have to seduce and emotionally wreck you into realizing that, I will.”

Bucky let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t deserve you.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you’ve got me anyway. So try not to bleed out on the kitchen floor next time, okay?”

“Noted.”

They laid in silence for a long moment before Bucky’s voice cut through.

“So… I can’t touch you at all? Like a twenty-four-hour sex ban? Or are there exceptions for accidental thigh grazes and overly affectionate cuddles?”

Y/N smirked into his chest. “Hmm. I might be convinced to negotiate. But only if you let me take your shirt off next time.”

Bucky groaned. “That’s just cruel.”

“Nope. That’s called trust building.”

And just like that, his arm curled tighter around her, his heart finally steady under her cheek.

They’d argue again—God knew they were both too stubborn for their own good—but tonight, they were soft. Still smoldering, still scarred, still figuring it out.

But in love.

Very, very in love.

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kxsagi · 3 days ago

Note

HIHIHIIIII POOK vould you do something w the bllk boys (isagi, itoshis, shidou n whoever else u'd like😽) and reader who's been really down lately, like the average depression blues and maybe the boys take care of them a little 😁only if u wanna ofc ofc

“𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞”

a/n: yesss ofc, i hope this brought some comfort!

i couldn't think of a title idea for the life of me and wrote most of this late at night 🌚

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, bachira meguru, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, karasu tabito, aiku oliver, kaiser michael, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

isagi notices first when your texts start getting shorter. you’re saying “i’m tired” more often, cancelling plans, and your usual emojis are missing. he doesn’t pry, he knows that can make it worse.

instead, he starts showing up unannounced with your favorite food and something soft, like a hoodie of his he knows you love or a little plushie. he doesn’t say why he’s there. he just sits beside you, talks about his day, and holds your hand.

when he sees you struggling to get out of bed, he gently rubs your back and whispers, “you don’t have to do anything today, love. but if you want, we can just lie here. i’ll be your blanket.”

and then he actually just… lays on top of you like a weighted comforter.

he’ll do your skincare, braid your hair with tik toks in the background, and narrate his entire football training schedule in the most boring monotone possible until you finally giggle.

itoshi sae

he’s not good with emotions, but he’s very good at noticing them. and lately, your voice’s been quieter, your eyes a little duller.

he doesn’t say, “what’s wrong?” he says, “you haven’t smiled in three days.”

sae starts doing things without asking. dishes? done. laundry? folded. fridge? stocked. and every time you protest, he gives you this deadpan look like, “don’t argue with me when you’ve been living on toast and sadness.”

one night, he lies down beside you, not touching, just watching you breathe under the moonlight. then, in the quietest voice ever, “you don’t have to pretend to be okay with me. i’ll sit in the dark with you.”

if you cry, he doesn’t say “don’t cry.” he just pulls you into his chest and rubs your back until the silence becomes soft again.

itoshi rin

rin has no idea how to help at first. he watches you zone out mid-sentence, sees you curled up in bed at 2 PM, and feels this tight ache in his chest. he hates seeing you like this.

his version of helping is silently putting your comfort things around the room: a heating pad, your favorite hoodie, a playlist that he made secretly titled “for her on bad days,” and your favorite snacks on the nightstand with a sticky note: “eat or i’ll kill you. – rin.”

when you start crying randomly, rin panics. he stiffens up, goes “uhh, shit, uhhh” and then just awkwardly hugs you from behind like a koala.

“you’re allowed to be sad, okay?” he mumbles into your hair. “just don’t shut me out.”

he’ll lay there with you, barely moving, one hand resting on your hip to let you know he’s there, even when you can’t talk.

shidou ryusei

surprisingly… shidou handles it better than expected. he notices when your energy disappears. he’s the one dragging you out of the house when you’ve been inside for four days straight.

“sunlight, baby. vitamin D. you need it. and me. mostly me. and my vitamin D–”

when you’re curled up like a burrito, he physically lifts you and throws you over his shoulder, yelling, “you don’t need therapy, you need tacos. and me. mostly me. and my di–”

he makes you laugh when you really don’t want to. calls your depression “the emo gremlin in your brain” and offers to fight it. literally draws a face on a pillow and body-slams it yelling “GET OUTTA HER HEAD YOU GREMLIN BITCH.”

when the laughter dies down and your eyes go sad again, he softens. “hey… you don’t have to be happy around me. i’m not goin’ anywhere. you got me.”

bachira meguru

he notices immediately. he feels it. when your voice loses its color, when your hugs don’t hold as long, when your smile doesn’t crinkle your eyes anymore.

he paints you a mural on a giant canvas, full of bright yellows and warm oranges and little cartoon versions of you two holding hands.

“this is how i see you, even when you don’t.”

if you’re having trouble eating, he turns it into a goofy picnic on the floor with tiny flags and “rate this snack from 1 to 10 or i’ll explode.”

when you cry in silence, he doesn’t ask why. he just cups your face gently and rests his forehead on yours.

“you’re allowed to be messy and quiet and heavy. i still love you just the same.”

mikage reo

the moment reo sees your energy drop, he drops everything else. meetings? postponed. training? moved. if you text “i’m not feeling good today,” reo shows up in ten minutes flat, in sweats and with a bag of your favorite pastries.

he doesn’t try to cheer you up by telling you to “look on the bright side.” instead, he says: “then let’s sit in the dark together, baby.”

starts spoiling you even more when you're down – luxury spa kits, takeout from expensive places, even orders a custom plush of himself for you to “cuddle when he’s not around” (he pretends it’s a joke, but he’s 100% serious).

when you start blaming yourself for being distant or moody, he holds your face and says, “hey. you’re not a burden. if anything, it’s an honor to be trusted enough to see you like this.”

(stopppp reo you’re gonna make everyone cry 😭)

nagi seishiro

nagi might seem laid back, but he notices right away when something’s off. you haven’t texted him your usual memes? you didn’t rant about something dumb today? yeah, no. he’s crawling into bed with you.

no words – just silently pulls you into a warm cuddle pile, head tucked under his chin, arm lazily but protectively around your waist.

“existing is hard. let’s do nothing together, mkay?”

he starts playing cozy games on switch next to you while letting you snuggle up. if you peek over to watch, he hands you the extra controller and says, “you don’t have to talk. just press A sometimes.”

kisses your forehead so gently when you fall asleep mid-sniffle and whispers, “you’re still my favorite person, even when you’re sad.”

karasu tabito

he gets weirdly good at dealing with it. he’s the “joking but also serious” boyfriend who forces you to shower by making it into a fake olympic sport.

“if you get out in under 10 minutes, you win a forehead kiss and a chicken nugget.”

if you cancel a hangout, he immediately texts “no worries 💕 love u 💕 but also ur dumb and i’m coming over to throw bread at your window 🥖”

has a sixth sense for when your brain spirals. texts you things like: “you’re hot. emotionally complex. and mildly unstable in a sexy way. this is a pro-depression household as long as you let me hug you after.”

and when you get quiet and low, he stops joking. his voice softens. “don’t disappear on me, okay? i don’t care if you’re not sunshine right now. i just wanna be where you are.”

aiku oliver

the guy who tries to make you laugh with the dumbest things like putting cucumbers on his eyes and moaning “self-care is sexy” to cheer you up.

but also the one who sits you down and asks how you’re actually feeling in a calm, grounded voice that makes you tear up.

“listen, babe. it’s okay to feel like crap. just means you’re human. hot, wonderful, sometimes-sad human.”

runs you bubble baths, makes sure you’re fed, brushes your hair if you let him, and throws your depressive guilt out the window.

“you don’t owe me joy, y’know? you just owe yourself a little kindness. i’ll remind you every day if i have to.”

kaiser michael

the second you stop being your usual self, kaiser panics internally. not that he’ll ever admit it. instead, he becomes overly dramatic and possessive in the name of “fixing it.”

“who hurt you? was it the world? was it capitalism? was it that barista who spelled your name wrong? i’ll destroy them.”

makes you get out of bed just to lie on his chest like a weighted throne. “you’re not allowed to be sad unless it’s on top of me.”

he doesn’t say “cheer up.” he says, “you’re allowed to be fucked up. i am, too. but if you’re going down, i’m going with you and we’re doing it with style.”

buys you matching sunglasses and says you two are going to sabotage the universe together unless you feel like napping first.

but when you’re really, really quiet, when you don’t want jokes or noise, he kisses your temple and says softly, “you don’t have to be anything right now. not perfect. not productive. just… stay here. i got you.”

(it’s rare but when it happens, it breaks you and heals you all at once.)

ness alexis

ness notices right away. he’s so emotionally tuned in, you barely have to say anything. if you sigh a little too heavy, he’s already checking your temperature and fluffing pillows.

“what do you need? food? music? a hug? a legally binding note saying you don’t have to do anything today?”

becomes the cuddliest nurse on earth. wraps you in a blanket like a burrito and hand-feeds you snacks while talking about random stuff just to fill the quiet without making you feel pressured to respond.

sends you memes with captions like “me trying to be a functioning adult” but checks up five minutes later like: “okay, but seriously. do you want me to skip practice and come over?”

writes you tiny notes and hides them around the apartment. in your book: “you’re still the main character.”

on the bathroom mirror: “your sadness doesn’t scare me. i’m staying.”

when you cry and say “sorry for being like this,” ness hugs you tighter and whispers, “don’t apologize for being human. i love you even when you’re not okay. maybe especially then.”

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velvetvisionsaurora · 3 days ago

Text

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 15: Overwhelming Need

The weight of the revelation—that your heat was approaching while Mingi was already in rut upstairs—settled over the room like a suffocating blanket. You could feel the need building inside you, not just the physical omega instincts preparing for heat, but an overwhelming emotional pull toward your mate who was locked away, suffering alone.

"I need to see him," you said suddenly, trying to stand from Yunho's protective embrace. "Mingi needs to know I'm okay, that I'm here."

"Absolutely not," Hongjoong said immediately, his pack leader voice brooking no argument. "A pre-heat omega near a rutting alpha? That's a recipe for disaster."

"But he's my mate," you protested, your omega crying out at the thought of your alpha in distress. "What if he think I've rejected him?”

Another anguished howl from upstairs seemed to confirm your words, the sound making every alpha in the room tense with sympathy and concern.

"Which is exactly why you need distance right now," Seonghwa said gently but firmly. "Your scent is already calling to him. If you get any closer while you're both in this state..."

"We need to get her to the guesthouse," Hongjoong decided, his leader instincts taking over. "Seonghwa, Wooyoung, take her there and stay with her. The rest of us will figure out how to handle Mingi safely."

"But—" you started to protest.

"No arguments," Hongjoong said, though his voice softened with affection. "I know you want to help him, but right now the best thing you can do is stay safe while we find a solution."

Wooyoung was already moving to your side, gently helping you stand while Seonghwa gathered some supplies. "Come on, Tulip," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable."

As the three of you made your way across the garden to the guesthouse, another desperate roar from Mingi's window made you stumble. The sound of your mate's anguish was like a physical blow, your omega instincts screaming at you to comfort him.

"I know," Seonghwa murmured, his hand steady on your back. "I know it hurts. But Hongjoong's right—this is the safest option for everyone right now."

When you reached the guesthouse, Seonghwa unlocked the door and ushered you inside. The moment you crossed the threshold, Wooyoung stopped dead in his tracks, his nostrils flaring as he took in the atmosphere.

"Holy shit," he breathed, his eyes going slightly glazed. "It smells like you and sex and..." He gripped the doorframe for support. "I may actually never leave this place. You could evict me with a crowbar and I'd find a way back."

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa said with exasperated fondness, "you're being dramatic."

"Am I?" Wooyoung countered, following you both inside and immediately moving to hover near you. "Because this place smells like our mate claimed and satisfied and I think my alpha might actually combust from how perfect that is."

Seonghwa shot him a warning look, but you could see the way his own hands were trembling slightly, the careful control he was exerting to maintain his composure. "We're here to help her feel safe and calm, not to make things more complicated."

"Right, right," Wooyoung agreed, though he made no move to create more distance. "Totally calm and helpful. That's me."

You settled onto the couch, feeling emotionally and physically drained from the mate bond revelations and the growing awareness of your approaching heat. Almost immediately, Wooyoung was beside you, his presence warm and comforting despite his obvious struggle with control.

"How are you feeling?" Seonghwa asked, taking the chair across from you with careful precision. "Physically, I mean. Any heat symptoms yet?"

You considered the question, taking inventory of your body's responses. "Restless. Emotional. Everything feels... more intense than usual."

"That's normal for pre-heat," Seonghwa assured you. "Especially with mate bonds involved. Your omega is preparing."

Wooyoung, who had been unusually quiet, suddenly shifted closer to you on the couch. "Can I..." he hesitated, then looked at you with earnest eyes. "Can I scent you? Please? My alpha is going crazy knowing you're upset, and I need... I need to make sure you know you're safe."

The request was so genuine, so full of care despite his obvious desire, that you found yourself nodding. "Okay."

The relief that crossed Wooyoung's face was immediate and profound. He moved carefully, as if you might bolt at any moment, before gently pulling you closer to his side. His nose buried in your neck, right where your scent was strongest, and he inhaled deeply.

"Better," he murmured against your skin, his voice already sounding more settled. "So much better."

But instead of pulling away, he began pressing soft kisses along your neck, his lips finding the sensitive spots that made your omega purr with satisfaction. Each kiss sent warmth spreading through your body, making your head feel pleasantly dizzy.

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa said with a warning tone, "what did we just say about keeping things calm?"

"This is calm," Wooyoung protested, though he didn't stop his gentle assault on your neck. "I'm being very calm. Very controlled. See how controlled I'm being?"

His teeth grazed your pulse point, making you gasp softly, and Seonghwa made a sound that might have been a growl.

"That's not controlled," Seonghwa said roughly, his own composure clearly slipping as he watched Wooyoung mark you with gentle kisses. "That's... that's the opposite of controlled."

"But she likes it," Wooyoung said with satisfaction, noting the way you'd melted into his touch. "Look how relaxed she is. This is therapeutic. Medicinal, even."

"Medicinal," Seonghwa repeated flatly, though his eyes were fixed on the way Wooyoung's lips moved against your skin. "Right."

"Mmhmm," you hummed in agreement, too dizzy from the attention to form proper words. Your omega was purring steadily now, the sound of contentment filling the small space.

Seonghwa's control cracked slightly at the sound. "You're both going to be the death of me," he muttered, but his voice held more affection than genuine complaint.

From the main house, you could still hear the occasional sounds of Mingi's distress, but Wooyoung's attention was making it easier to bear. The gentle kisses and soft touches were grounding you, reminding your omega that you were safe and cared for even if one of your mates was suffering.

"We'll figure it out," Wooyoung murmured against your neck, as if reading your thoughts. "Hongjoong-hyung will find a way to help Mingi, and we'll all get through this together."

"Promise?" you asked softly, your voice small with vulnerability.

"Promise," both alphas said simultaneously, their voices carrying the weight of absolute certainty.

---

Wooyoung’s soft, reverent kisses along your neck finally coax the knot in your chest to loosen, your restless anxiety melting into something softer and heavier. His arms drape securely around your waist, holding you close as if he could shield you from everything outside these four walls.

"There we go," he murmurs gently, brushing his nose just beneath your ear, letting his presence—warm, unhurried, undeniably alpha—anchor you to the here and now. "Let us take care of you, Tulip. Let us help you breathe."

Your fists unclench from where they’d been knotted together in your lap, the noise from the packhouse fading into the background. You lean into him instinctively and feel his body relax further, his need bleeding into comfort with every beat of your heart.

Seonghwa, unsettled but steady, stands, tension thrumming through his frame, then moves to the edge of the couch. He kneels down in front of you, the floorboard creaking under his weight. His eyes are dark with tenderness and honest desire, but his hands are gentle as they gather yours, thumbs stroking soothing circles across your knuckles.

“You’re safe here,” Seonghwa says softly. “You can let go—just a little. You’re not alone.”

Wooyoung grins, nuzzling your neck again, emboldened by Seonghwa’s nearness. “She’s melting,” he teases softly, the words meant only for the three of you. “Let’s really help her forget for a bit, hyung.”

Seonghwa’s gaze drifts to your face, guarded concern softening into promise. “May I? May I comfort you too?” His invitation feels heavier than Wooyoung’s playful affection—deeper, somehow, as if he’s offering more than just a hand to hold.

You nod, words stuck behind the lump in your throat. With that, Seonghwa leans forward, pressing your joined hands to his lips. His kiss is chaste but lingering, his breath warm against your skin.

Wooyoung’s hands stroke your waist as Seonghwa leans in closer, and the two alphas flank you—one behind, one at your feet—creating a nest of warmth and safety. Seonghwa looks up at you through his lashes, waiting for you to guide him, and when you nod again, he moves up and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

“Your omega’s scent is…beautiful,” he whispers near your jaw, his confession trembling with restraint. “It’s making it very difficult to think about anything else.” His hand slides gently up your thigh, not demanding, but grounding—present.

Wooyoung grins wickedly against your neck. “Hyung’s right. It’s intoxicating.” His hand joins Seonghwa’s, their fingers brushing, and they both smile at the point of contact—a brief, silent pact.

You giggle softly, overwhelmed by the affection, by the careful enthusiasm in their touches.

Seonghwa leans in, lips ghosting along your temple as his hand cups your cheek. “Lean back.” His voice is low, cool water over hot stones. “Let us take care of you, Tulip.”

You sink back into Wooyoung, letting your head rest against his shoulder. Their hands map you in tandem, slow and reverent: Wooyoung’s making lazy patterns over your hip and ribs, Seonghwa’s smoothing circles above your knee.

Wooyoung presses a line of soft kisses below your ear, one hand finding your hair while the other cradles your waist. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs, praise half reverent, half hungry. “Let’s see you smile again, pretty girl.”

Seonghwa’s lips press softly to your brow, then your jaw—a trail of gentle reassurance. "Breathe, omega," he soothes, voice shimmering with restraint. "Let the world fall away. There’s nothing beyond this room but us and you."

You exhale shakily, tension finally beginning to unspool as both alphas work in wordless sync: Wooyoung's lips finding the delicate shell of your ear, Seonghwa’s steady arms bracketing your thighs. Their combined affection becomes an anchor, pulling you from the noise and chaos of heat, rut, and fear—reminding you that, here, you are safe, loved, and cherished.

Seonghwa’s lips brush the edge of your jaw, his breath warm against your skin as his hands trail slowly upward, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His touch is featherlight but intent, fingertips exploring the sensitive skin at your waist, your ribs, charting a path of tingling anticipation. You arch instinctively, pressing closer to Wooyoung behind you, caught between the heat of both alphas.

Wooyoung's hands frame your hips, squeezing lightly as he fits his body along your back. The press of his chest—solid, reassuring—grounds you even as his mouth finds that place below your ear and sucks a mark, making your head tip back against his shoulder. Seonghwa watches the way your lips part, the way your breath catches, and a flicker of hunger darkens his eyes.

Without a word, Seonghwa leans in again, kissing you as his hands wander higher, grazing the sides of your chest. His thumbs brush under your bra, careful but not hesitant. You shiver at the boldness, the new spike of want sending warmth curling low in your belly. His mouth opens against yours, coaxing a sigh that Wooyoung answers with a groan of his own.

Wooyoung’s hand slips beneath your shirt and splay across your stomach, tugging you closer as his hips roll forward just a fraction, letting you feel how your closeness is affecting him. He presses a line of kisses down your neck, nipping at your pulse. “You’re gorgeous like this,” he murmurs, voice roughened by need. “I want to touch you everywhere.”

“Let him,” comes Seonghwa’s quiet command, his own voice threaded with restrained hunger. “Let us.”

You nod, caught up in the heat burning between them. Seonghwa’s lips find yours again—deeper, more insistent—as his hands finally push your shirt higher. He drags his mouth lower, across your cheek, along your throat, down over your collarbone, and when his tongue flicks over your skin, your omega keens beneath the attention.

Wooyoung’s hands glide up to join Seonghwa’s, the two of them working in silent tandem to strip you of your shirt. Their eyes rake over your bare skin with matching awe and greed, and then Seonghwa's mouth finds your breast, lips closing around a peaked nipple while his hand kneads the other in sync. Wooyoung, meanwhile, trails kisses along your spine, his hands steadying your thighs. He slips beneath the waistband of your shorts, palms hot and hungry.

Your breath comes fast now, every nerve ending alive beneath their hands and mouths. Seonghwa lavishes attention on your chest, tongue circling, while Wooyoung strokes between your legs through your panties, fingers finding you wet and needy. “You want more?” he breathes, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Yes,” you gasp, the answer pulled from your core.

Wooyoung tugs at the waistband of your shorts. "Lift your hips for me, pretty." You obey, letting him peel the fabric away, leaving you bare to both their gazes. Seonghwa traces his hand along your tummy, then slips lower, fingers joining Wooyoung’s, both of them working you in tandem—one circling your clit, the other gently dipping inside, never rushing you, coaxing you higher.

You writhe between them, head dropping onto Wooyoung’s shoulder as pleasure builds to a fever pitch. Their hands move together, perfectly in sync—one mouth on your breast, another biting soft marks into your neck, hands everywhere, gentle and relentless.

Seonghwa looks up at you, voice hoarse. "Let go for us, love." Wooyoung’s lips press to your ear, his whisper a promise and command all at once. "Come for us."

You shatter, trembling in their hold, every muscle contracting as you ride out the wave of pleasure, caught completely between your two alphas. They don’t let up—gentle hands and mouths carrying you down, soothing and adoring, kisses trailing over every inch of exposed skin.

You collapse against them: Wooyoung clutching you to his chest, Seonghwa gathering you into his arms from the other side, their hands tangled together at your waist, anchoring you in the afterglow as their touches turn fond and lingering.

No words—just the shared panting of breath, the thrum of want softened into deep, complete satisfaction, and the sense that they might never let you out of their arms again.

---

You’re still trembling when Seonghwa lifts you a little in Wooyoung’s embrace, catching your gaze with quiet, searching eyes. “Is this what you want?” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek, the intimacy of the question grounding you in the midst of all your longing.

You nod, breathless—more than ready. “Yes, Seonghwa.”

Wooyoung’s arms steady you, his hands smoothing down your arms as he cradles you to his chest. You can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek; the heat of his own arousal pressed firm and patient against your back. “Let him take care of you, Tulip,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple.

You spread your thighs for Seonghwa as he settles between them, his hands reverent and sure as he positions himself. He strokes himself once—slow, deliberate—then lines up and presses in, achingly gentle at first, taking his time as he fills you, inch by careful inch. The stretch is exquisite, your body arching into the sensation, and his hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight.

He holds your gaze as he sinks all the way in—a soft exhale shuddering from his lips, a low moan wrung from yours. The world narrows to the feeling of him inside you, Wooyoung’s arms wrapped around you, a cocoon of touch and heat and safety.

Seonghwa rocks into you slowly, each stroke deep and measured, worshipful. His thumb smooths along your hip, his other hand brushing stray hair from your brow. Wooyoung nuzzles your hair from behind, peppering soft kisses along the side of your neck, murmuring praise and encouragement into your ear.

“You feel so good,” Seonghwa breathes, voice splintering with each thrust. “So perfect around me—I want to make you fall apart again, as many times as you’ll let me.”

Wooyoung’s hands travel over your body—fond and possessive—cupping your breast, stroking your thigh, kneading your waist wherever he can reach. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, his teeth skimming your skin, “the way you take him, the way you look at us. Let him have you, all of you.”

Driven by the encouragement, Seonghwa’s control falters; his pace picks up, slow and smooth becoming something rougher, hungrier. His hips snap into you with growing urgency, low groans slipping between clenched teeth as he loses himself in you. You cling to Wooyoung, grateful for the way he holds you steady against each thrust, your pleasure cresting once more as Seonghwa buries himself deep.

Your walls flutter around Seonghwa, making him gasp your name. When he feels you tighten, he fucks you harder, desperate now—chasing his own peak, coaxing yours with every deep stroke. Wooyoung holds you through it, kissing your jaw, whispering, “That’s it, Tulip, let go—don’t hold back.” His hand slips between your legs, fingertips finding your clit, stoking your pleasure until it burns bright and wild.

You come again with a shocked cry, body clenching down on Seonghwa. He drives into you once, twice more, losing his own rhythm as he groans your name, spilling into you, hips jerking as he finally lets go. He collapses over you as his knot swells, catching himself on shaking arms, one hand still tangled with yours.

Your bodies stay fused, warm and sated, Wooyoung’s arms closing around the both of you as he kisses your cheek, your shoulder, whatever he can reach. Seonghwa presses a string of soft, shaky kisses along your jaw, your lips, gentle again now that the fierce need has passed.

Between his body pressed to yours and Wooyoung’s presence at your back, you feel completely surrounded, cherished, and utterly undone.

You close your eyes and just breathe, letting the sensation of their hands and lips—soft, reverent, lingering—anchor you in a new kind of peace.

---

Back in the main house, the remaining five alphas were gathered in the living room, ostensibly trying to come up with a plan to safely help Mingi through his rut. However, their focus was being severely tested by the sounds drifting across the garden from the guesthouse.

What had started as soft murmurs and gentle conversation had gradually evolved into something far more distracting. Despite the distance and the closed windows, their enhanced alpha hearing was picking up sounds that made concentration nearly impossible.

Yunho was pacing the length of the living room like a caged animal, his hands running through his hair in frustration. "This is torture," he muttered, his voice strained. "Actual torture."

San had given up any pretense of sitting calmly and was now gripping the back of a chair with white knuckles, his eyes squeezed shut as if that would block out the sounds. "I can't... this is impossible."

"We need to focus," Hongjoong said firmly, though his own voice carried a note of strain. "Mingi needs our help, and we can't—"

He was interrupted by a particularly clear sound from the guesthouse that made both Yunho and San visibly flinch.

"Easy for you to say," San said with a slightly hysterical laugh, his control clearly hanging by a thread. "You've already been with her. You've already had your turn to bond. The rest of us are sitting here listening to our mate with two other alphas while we're supposed to just... what? Discuss logistics?"

Yunho made a sound that was somewhere between a whine and a growl. "I'm going to lose my mind. Literally lose my mind."

Yeosang, who had been maintaining his usual composed exterior, finally cracked slightly. "Perhaps we should move this discussion to a different room," he suggested, his voice more strained than usual. "Somewhere with... better sound insulation."

"There is no room in this house with good enough sound insulation," Jongho said grimly, his young face tight with the effort of maintaining control. "Alpha hearing is a curse right now."

Another wave of sounds from the guesthouse made San actually whimper. "That's it. I'm going over there."

"No, you're not," Hongjoong said immediately, his pack leader authority cutting through San's desperation. "You know exactly what would happen if you showed up at that door right now."

"I don't care," San said, though he didn't actually move toward the door. "This is inhuman. How are we supposed to just sit here and listen to—"

"Because that's what being in a pack means," Hongjoong interrupted, his voice carrying both sympathy and firmness. "Sometimes you have to put the needs of the whole pack above your individual desires."

"But she's our mate too," Yunho said, his voice breaking slightly. "Our omega. And she's right there, and we can hear her, and—"

"And she's safe," Hongjoong finished firmly. "She's with two alphas who care about her, who will protect her, who will make sure she's taken care of. That has to be enough right now."

The sounds from the guesthouse seemed to crescendo at that moment, making all five alphas freeze as their enhanced senses picked up every detail they desperately wished they couldn't hear.

"I hate my life," San muttered, burying his face in his hands.

"We need a new plan," Yeosang said with forced calm, though his hands were clenched into fists. "This situation with Mingi cannot continue, especially if these... activities... are going to become a regular occurrence."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, a renewed howl of anguish echoed from upstairs. Mingi had clearly heard the same sounds they had, and his reaction was even more desperate than theirs.

"Fuck," Jongho breathed. "He's going to hurt himself trying to get out of that room."

The sound of something heavy hitting the door repeatedly confirmed Jongho's worry. Mingi's desperation had reached a new level, driven by the knowledge that his omega was being claimed by other alphas while he remained locked away.

"We need to sedate him," Hongjoong said grimly. "It's the only way to keep him from injuring himself."

"Dr. Kim could give us something," Yunho suggested, though he looked reluctant to drug their packmate.

"It might be our only option," Hongjoong agreed. "At least until we can figure out a safer way to—"

He was cut off by another sound from the guesthouse, this one clearly identifiable as your voice, which sent a collective shudder through all five remaining alphas.

"That's it," San declared, standing abruptly. "I'm going for a run. A very long run. Maybe to another city."

"I'll come with you," Yunho said immediately, already moving toward the door. "Anywhere but here."

"Actually," Yeosang said, rising as well, "that's not a terrible idea. Some distance might help us all think more clearly."

Hongjoong watched as three of his packmates prepared to flee the house rather than endure any more of the torture of listening to their omega with other alphas.

"Fine," he said with a sigh. "Go. But we're calling Dr. Kim about Mingi when you get back."

"And maybe getting some industrial-strength soundproofing," Jongho added as he followed the others toward the door.

Hongjoong was left alone in the living room, the sounds from the guesthouse seeming even louder now that he didn't have to maintain his composure for the others. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the practical problems at hand—Mingi's rut, your approaching heat, the logistics of managing eight-way mate bonds.

But the sounds of your pleasure, even muffled by distance, made it nearly impossible to think about anything else.

Being the pack leader, he reflected grimly, was definitely not what he'd signed up for.

---

The guesthouse was quiet except for the soft sounds of sleeping alphas. Seonghwa and Wooyoung lay on either side of where you should have been, their arms unconsciously reaching toward the space you'd carefully vacated. The post-intimacy exhaustion had claimed them both, giving you the window you'd been waiting for.

Your omega had been growing increasingly restless as the night wore on. Despite the comfort and satisfaction your mates had provided, something deep inside you was calling out for the one alpha who remained separated from you. Mingi's pain echoed through the mate bond like a constant ache, and your approaching heat was making the need to comfort him impossible to ignore.

Moving with careful silence, you slipped from the bed and padded to the window. The main house across the garden was mostly dark, with only a few lights indicating that some of the others might still be awake. You'd have to be quick and quiet.

Your omega instincts were driving you forward with a single-minded purpose that overrode rational thought. Your mate was suffering, calling for you, and every fiber of your being demanded that you go to him.

The walk across the garden felt both endless and too quick. Each step brought you closer to your distressed alpha, but also deeper into a situation that the rational part of your mind knew was dangerous. A pre-heat omega approaching a rutting alpha was exactly the scenario everyone had been trying to avoid.

But your omega didn't care about danger. She only cared about her mate.

You slipped inside the main house, grateful for your familiarity with the layout as you navigated through the darkened hallways. The others were either asleep or still out on their run, giving you a clear path upstairs.

Mingi's door loomed before you, and you could hear him on the other side—restless movement, soft sounds of distress, the occasional thud of something hitting the wall. Your heart broke at the evidence of his suffering.

Your hand trembled as you reached for the door handle. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered that this was reckless, that you should turn around and go back to the safety of the guesthouse. But your omega was in control now, driven by instincts older and more powerful than rational thought.

The lock clicked open—they'd used a simple turn-lock rather than something more secure, probably never imagining you would be the one trying to get in.

The door swung open, and you stepped into Mingi's room.

The scent hit you immediately—pure, concentrated alpha rut mixed with distress and longing. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, calling to every omega instinct you possessed. Your eyes immediately began to glow that telltale purple as your omega responded to being in the presence of her rutting mate.

Mingi was across the room in an instant, moving with inhuman speed as his golden eyes locked onto yours. He'd been pacing by the window when you entered, his tall frame tense with barely controlled energy, but your appearance had frozen him mid-step.

"Omega," he breathed, the word carrying a reverence that made your heart skip. "My omega. You came."

His voice was deeper than you'd ever heard it, roughened by hours of calling for you, by the rut that had consumed him since the mate bond recognition. His eyes blazed golden in the dim light, predatory and possessive and filled with desperate need.

"I had to," you whispered, taking a step closer despite every self-preservation instinct screaming warnings. "I could feel your pain. I couldn't leave you like this."

Something animalistic flickered across his features as your scent reached him properly for the first time. His nostrils flared, and a low growl rumbled from his chest—not threatening, but claiming. Recognizing.

"You smell like them," he said, his voice carrying both jealousy and understanding. "Like Seonghwa-hyung and Wooyoung-ah."

"Yes," you admitted, watching as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, clearly fighting for control. "But I'm here now. I'm here for you."

The simple statement broke something in him. The careful distance he'd been maintaining across the room disappeared as he moved toward you with purposeful strides, his alpha nature fully in control.

"Mine," he said softly, reaching out to cup your face with trembling hands. "You're mine too."

"Yours," you agreed, leaning into his touch as your omega sang with joy at finally being reunited with her distressed mate. "Always yours."

His thumb traced your cheek with reverent gentleness that contrasted sharply with the wild energy radiating from him. "I thought... when I heard you with them... I thought maybe you didn't want me."

"Never," you said fiercely, covering his hands with yours. "I wanted to come to you from the beginning. They wouldn't let me because they were afraid—"

"They were right to be afraid," Mingi interrupted, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made your omega shiver with anticipation. "I'm not in control right now. I haven't been since I caught your scent."

"I don't need you to be in control," you said softly, stepping closer until you were pressed against his chest. "I need you to be mine."

The last thread of his restraint snapped at your words. His arms came around you with desperate strength, pulling you against him as if he could somehow merge your bodies through sheer will. His face buried in your neck, breathing in your scent with deep, shuddering breaths.

"I've been going crazy without you," he confessed against your skin. "Knowing you were my mate but not being able to touch you, hold you, claim you properly."

"I'm here now," you repeated, running your hands through his hair in soothing motions. "I'm not going anywhere."

He pulled back to look at you, his golden eyes meeting your purple ones in a moment of perfect understanding. Two souls driven by biology and instinct and love, finally reunited despite all the obstacles that had tried to keep them apart.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice vulnerable despite the rut-driven need radiating from every pore. "Because once I start, I don't know if I'll be able to stop. The rut... it's stronger because of the mate bond."

In response, you reached up and slowly, deliberately removed the sleep shirt you'd worn from the guesthouse, letting it fall to the floor between you. His eyes tracked the movement with laser focus, a low rumble of approval vibrating through his chest.

"I'm sure," you said simply.

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